


Bloodless

by bauble



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-05-26 08:39:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14997047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauble/pseuds/bauble
Summary: Written for Inception Reverse Bang featuring art from mementis.Sci fi AU.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Master art post [here](https://mementis.livejournal.com/48734.html)  
> Fanmix [here](https://mementis.livejournal.com/55678.html)

_"Reporting live on the events taking place on the Venusian colony of Melete is our correspondent, Ananda Bhatia."_

_"It's a scene of chaos and destruction here on the surface of Venus, Jim. Robotic rescue crews are combing the station for survivors and the life support system has only recently come online. Over my right shoulder is a view of the planet's inhospitable surface. All the mining platforms have all been decimated in the wake of this shockingly violent Replicant uprising."_

_"Ananda, what caused these Replicants to all go berserk at once? There've been reports of the occasional Replicant going off-programming, but this kind of mass—for lack of a better term—glitching is unheard of."_

_"It's possible that this was a large-scale coding failure on the part of Proclus, the company that manufactured all the Replicants in use at this particular colony."_

_"You don't sound convinced."_

_"It's all speculation at this point, but high level sources on the ground I've spoken to are saying that this was no accident. They think someone in the station was responsible for hacking the machines and inciting them to riot."_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 1: Mneme, The United Federation of Lunar Colonies, Moon**

“It’s been a long time.”

“Yusuf.” Eames stilled, drink hovering in mid-air between the counter and his mouth. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“One in the afternoon and you’re three sheets to the wind already?” Out of the corner of his eye, Eames saw Yusuf lifting a wrist. His watch gleamed in the light, sleek titanium that matched the crisp wool suit he wore--an ensemble complete down to his shined shoes and black tie. If it weren’t for the faint note of disdain in Yusuf’s voice, Eames wouldn’t have recognized him at all.

“Merely two sheets in,” Eames corrected as he brought his glass up to bump against his lips, his teeth. “Certainly not far enough for you to be a figment of my alcohol-addled imagination. Which leads to the logical and yet highly improbable conclusion that you’re actually here, speaking to me.”

Yusuf regarded him for a long moment. His eyes were sharp, undulled by chemical haze; Eames wondered what else had changed in the last three years. “I suppose neither of us thought this moment would ever come.”

“Gone private, have you?” Eames took another sip of his cognac, taking comfort in the familiar burn. “Money’s better, even if nothing else is.”

“Of course I have.” Yusuf smoothed down the front of his jacket, jarring loose in Eames' mind the memory of Yusuf pulling his badge out and sliding it across the Commissioner’s desk. “You saw to that, didn’t you?”

“There’s other work out there,” Eames replied, but it was weak and they both knew it.

“Not for people like us.”

"People like us," Eames echoed. "You mean Blade Runners or heartless bastards?"

Yusuf smiled thinly. "Dealer's choice."

"Right." Eames finished off the last of his drink. “I'm not interested in chasing down Replicants anymore. I’m a private investigator now.”

“Because taking pictures of cheaters and hookers is such an elevation.”

“Less blood on my hands,” Eames said, already weary and wondering why Yusuf had come. 

“There's no blood when they aren’t people.” Yusuf's voice was sharp, unforgiving. “Isn’t that what you once told me?”

Eames stiffened. The word echoed, a reminder. That last case. "Well, it's been a lovely chat, truly, but—" Eames turned back to the counter and signaled for another drink, "If you'll excuse me, I'm about to get well and truly shit-faced."

"I'm here to offer you a job."

“I’m out of the business. I have clients now, you know. Clients who only sporadically pay, but clients all the same—"

"You should take this offer. The money's better and your clients can find some other goon to not pay."

"Probably. But I'm old and I'm tired, Yusuf." Eames swirled the dregs of alcohol at the bottom of his glass. "Running isn't my game anymore."

“And what if I offered the chance to free the fair maiden from Cobol?”

Eames closed his eyes. Downed his fresh glass of cognac in one swallow. “This job will wipe the slate clean? For both of us?”

“Everything you owe and more,” Yusuf promised.

Eame stood. He resisted the urge to put his hands in his pockets, to finger the plastic chip that lay heavy in his trousers. “Are we to work together again?”

“No,” Yusuf said as he led the way out of the bar. “Proclus Global will be supplying you with a partner.”

“You’re telling me the galaxy's leading supplier of Replicants is hiring Blade Runners?” Eames raised an eyebrow. “And you’re one of them now?”

“They have an excellent benefits package,” Yusuf said blandly. He led Eames around the back of the building to a parking lot taken up entirely by a private airship emblazoned with ‘ _Proclus Enterprises_ ’ across the side. “If you live long enough to use it.”

“You’re simply the headhunter, then?” Eames asked, watching a ramp descend.

Yusuf shrugged. “I’m not any good at the running game without a partner. Neither of us are.”

“You could find a new one.” Eames started towards the ramp and then stopped when he realized Yusuf wasn’t following. 

“After you?” Yusuf’s smile was brittle. “I don’t think I’ve got it in me anymore.”

Eames took a tentative first step up, and then looked back. “Are you even going to tell me where I’m going?”

“To the spacedock and then back to Earth. It’s where Proclus headquarters is located and where the rogues have fled to.”

“Will I be seeing you again?” Eames called out once he reached the door to the airship.

“I suppose that depends on you.” Yusuf shrugged. “Try to avoid betraying any more of your future partners, will you?”

 **Tokyo, Japan, Earth**

The airship dropped Eames off in a courtyard at the bottom of a towering skyscraper. The words, ' _Bringing energy to life_ ' flickered across its face, alongside images of families running together through idyllic fields of wildflowers. Eames wondered, briefly, if fields like that even existed on Earth's surface anymore. If they did, they were on some private island owned by a reclusive trillionaire.

The courtyard was dotted with tasteful sculptures and carefully tended trees. At the end of it, a lone figure stood by the glass double doors.

“Mr. Eames,” the man said in a tone that suggested both boredom and faint impatience. “This way.”

He spun on a well-heeled shoe, the tailored fabric of his three-piece suit clinging to his every flex and step. Even as Eames shifted into a brisk almost-jog to keep up, the man only came to a stop once he passed through a security checkpoint in front of an elevator bank.

The guards nodded as Eames passed, evidently expecting his arrival. He felt a faint tingle as he passed through the security arch, the full-body scanners announcing him to be free of weaponry, contagious diseases, and dangerous contaminants.

“And you are?” Eames prompted when he finally reached the elevators.

“Arthur,” the man replied, staring straight ahead for a retinal scan. He held out a hand for a fingerprint analysis.

“Arthur,” Eames repeated, letting the name roll through his mouth. “I’d say it was a pleasure to meet you, but you’re making it rather difficult at the moment.” It was easy to slip into the old habits of mild flirtation and charm, to take on an old persona like a coat of armor--even if it didn’t quite fit any longer.

Arthur finished the biometric scans and walked into the first elevator that opened. “Please keep up, Mr. Eames.”

Eames followed Arthur in and allowed himself a wry smile at the impeccable posture. There was strength hidden underneath the prissy suit. “Is this how it’s going to be? Everybody leading me about with no explanation of where I’m going?”

“Anything you need to know will be told to you,” Arthur said, still staring straight ahead at the closed doors.

“While you’re simply here to escort and fetch me drinks.”

That got Arthur’s attention. “I am not your _butler_ ,” he snapped, twisting in lovely curve to snarl at Eames. 

Confronted with the full force of Arthur’s glare, Eames studied the fine architecture of Arthur's face and cheekbones, the slope of his nose. For all that his movements were restrained and careful, his face was strangely open, expressive.

“No, of course not,” Eames murmured. “You’re to be my partner, yeah?”

Arthur blinked, startled, and stepped out almost before the elevator doors had finished opening. He led Eames through a giant antechamber with windows on all sides, modulated levels of light streaming in through the blinds. At the end of the antechamber was a set of double-doors. There were two desks on either side and a pair of matching, non-descript secretaries behind them. They nodded at Arthur as he passed, activating their keypads in tandem to provide access.

The flooring transitioned into rich green carpet beneath Eames’ feet, absorbing all sounds into the hush of the office. Silhouetted in front of a window overlooking the entirety of Tokyo was the CEO of Proclus Global, Hisoka Saito.

“Mr. Eames, Arthur.” Saito turned and nodded at the chairs in front of his ornate, mahogany desk. “Please, have a seat.”

Arthur bowed at the waist before sitting down stiffly in a high-backed chair. 

Eames followed his lead while Saito made no move to take a seat himself. “You’re a very persuasive man,” Eames said. “Sending ghosts from my past to haunt me.”

“When it comes to high stakes operations, I like to work with the best,” Saito replied, unruffled. “And you are the very best.”

“I’m sure there are an abundance of eager young Runners competing for that title,” Eames replied, glancing over at Arthur. "And for significantly lower rates."

"Perhaps. But we both know it is experience that separates greatness from mere talent," Saito said. “And wisdom which tempers youth’s folly.”

“Wisdom?” Eames slipped a hand into his pocket. Ran a thumb over the number ten engraved on the chip. “You assume I’ve learned something from my mistakes.”

Saito smiled, and it was nearly kind. “I offer freedom from the debt you owe Cobol and, more importantly, freedom from the debt you owe your ex-wife.”

“Freedom is an illusion,” Eames said, taking familiar refuge in glibness. “But it is a rather nice one we’re willing to pay steeply for, isn’t it?”

“Without it, how can one truly live?” Saito replied. “I offer money enough to pay off your debts to Cobol, your wife, and make you a wealthy man besides. Do we have a deal?”

“Pay the debt to Cobol and wire Marita the money I owe her now,” Eames said, slouching back in his chair. “An upfront payment and then we’ll talk.”

Saito raised an eyebrow. “A moment ago, you were questioning my choice. Now you believe you are in a position to make such demands?”

“I wanted to know whether this was an interview or a job offer.” Eames flicked a piece of lint off his trousers and felt Arthur’s eyes tracking the movement. “Now I know.”

“A man that understands what his skill is worth.” Saito chuckled as he leaned forward to press a button on his desk. “Stroheim, release the payment.”

Stroheim’s voice rang through the intercom a second later. “It’s done.” 

Eames felt the buzz of his cell phone: a notification, confirmation. The debts were settled.

“Let us get down to business, shall we?” Saito took a seat. “I assume you are aware of our newest model of Replicant, the Nexus-6?”

“ _More human than humans_ ,” Eames quoted with a sardonic smile. “That’s your motto, isn’t it? Unfortunate that humans make messes, too.”

“The source of the problem I'd like you to solve is one particular model, serial number MA-98762,” Saito continued on, tranquil. “But she has taken to calling herself ‘Mal.’ It seems rather appropriate.”

“You didn’t bring me on to solve a single rogue Replicant problem,” Eames said, glancing at Arthur again. “There was a break-out on the Venusian colony two months ago—was she the one responsible?”

“Very good.” Grainy news footage of burning wreckage and overturned tanks on the surface of Venus shivered into the air. “Ten Replicants hijacked several space ships and escaped the colony. At least twenty other Replicants were destroyed in the uprising.”

“Uprising?” Eames frowned at the list of broken machinery that scrolled at the bottom of the feed alongside a human casualty count (twenty-two killed, thirty-seven injured). “It’s a corporate colony with little to no communication with the rest of the galaxy. How could the Nexus-6 models have evolved enough self-awareness to stage an uprising so quickly?”

“And there you see our dilemma,” Saito said, leaning back in his chair. “Our concern is not the escaped fugitives. It's the seed of the idea this Mal is threatening to spread.”

The display changed from the newsfeed to a video: a woman with defiant blue eyes striding down an empty hallway, purposeful. “She wasn’t designed to work in a mine on Venus,” Eames said as her model number, manufacture date, and physical description flashed beneath her picture. 

“No, she wasn’t,” Saito agreed. “Your job is to find retire her without delay. You understand why she must be handled immediately, and why we cannot wait for her termination date to resolve the issue.”

“I suppose it’d be too easy for you to give me a clue as to where she might be hiding,” Eames said. “Perhaps a few last known locations downloaded off the Mainframe?”

“She was never connected to the Mainframe,” Arthur said, and Eames turned to him, surprised. 

“A Replicant without a backup copy?” Eames said, staring back at the display. “No wonder she wants to start a revolution.”

“She managed to disable the remote links between the Mainframe and the other ten Replicants she helped escape,” Saito said. “We have engineers working to repair the damage, but the virus was quite thorough.”

“She managed to cut them all off?” Eames sat back in his chair. “Exactly who _is_ this Mal?”

“A very resourceful problem I am hiring you to solve, Mr. Eames.” Saito seemed disinclined to part with any more information on the matter.

“Where are the other ten?” Eames asked. “Out in the wilds, rampaging?”

“Arthur already dispatched with the most volatile models,” Saito said, and Eames could see in his peripheral vision the ramrod line of Arthur’s back, not relaxing even slightly at Saito’s words. “Only three remain, and they have gone into hiding. We believe they may know what Mal intends.”

“These chrome or skinjobs?”

“'Chrome'—what an interesting euphemism. To answer your question, they were custom-built to withstand the harsh conditions of the mines on Venus,” Saito said. “But it appears Mal helped them all find 'skins.'”

“Wonderful,” Eames replied. “Do we have any idea which models?”

“Only for two. A generic customer service model and a male pleasure bot.”

“You’re telling me they look like people, they’ve gone to ground, and you don’t know where.” The image of a handsome young man with delicate features popped up on the display, followed by a gaunt man with stringy hair. 

“That is why Proclus Global will be providing you with transportation, lodging and, of course, Arthur.” Saito paused. “Of the Blade Runners in my employ, he is--like you--the best.”

Eames watched the muscles in Arthur’s jaw tighten. “Ever worked with a partner before, love?”

“No,” Arthur replied flatly. “I never needed one.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” Eames said, voice light. “It’s me that needs the help.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed. He cast a curious glance at Eames before looking away.

“The two of you will make a formidable pair,” Saito cut in smoothly. “Your targets’ model numbers are A-528xz, F-679si, and N-491yb, but our reports indicate that they have selected new monikers for themselves: Ariadne, Fischer, and Nash. Stroheim and Satonaka will provide you with dossiers on your way out. We managed to pinpoint the location of N-491yb based on his last known whereabouts and scouts we sent into the area.”

“And this Nash can lead us to Mal?” Eames said as he and Arthur both stood.

“That is the hope,” Saito replied. “Good luck, gentlemen, and enjoy your flight to Monte Carlo.”

* * * * *

The airship they traveled in was more spacious than the one that had picked Eames up, partitioned off into various rooms to allow for sleep and some semblance of privacy. Eames found himself surprisingly grateful for this as he barricaded himself in a private room to make a call. 

“I thought you’d left the Blade Running business,” Marita said after Eames finished explaining Saito’s offer. He closed his eyes and could imagine, easily, the way she would look behind her desk: sighing as she rubbed the heel of her bare foot, pushing a stray curl of dark hair from her eyes.

“I had. But the money’s—well. You know I need it.” 

“It sounds dangerous,” she replied, and if Eames tried very hard, he could almost make out an edge of concern through the distance between them. 

“It’s not that much more dangerous than any of my previous jobs,” Eames said, not sure whether that was a lie or not. “Besides, I’ve a rather spectacular partner on my side now. He wears bespoke suits and insults me at every turn—the two of you would get on famously.”

Marita didn’t laugh, because she’d stopped laughing at all of Eames’ jokes years ago. “Is he more reliable than Yusuf?”

“I haven’t the foggiest,” Eames said honestly. “But regardless of whether I complete the job in one piece, you’ve already been freed from my shackles to Cobol. The debt’s been paid off and the money I get afterwards is merely the cherry on top.”

"I see." There was a pause before Marita said, “I should go. Rohan is calling.”

“Ah yes, Rohan. Give him my finest,” Eames said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice and mostly failing. 

She sighed. “Jack— 

"Yes?" He couldn't help the damnable rise in his voice. The unflagging hope, after all this time. 

"Thank you for the money. And--take care of yourself.”

* * * * *

“Arthur,” Eames said as he flopped down onto the seat across from Arthur.

“Mr. Eames,” Arthur responded, not looking up from a file. In the sunlight streaming in through the windows, his features were softened into something younger, less severe.

“Come now—are we going to be so formal the entire trip?” Eames asked, watching carefully for a reaction.

“We are working together in a professional context,” Arthur replied, finally glancing up. “Therefore, it stands to reason that we should be professional in our address.”

“I’m starting to think you don’t like me.”

“How I feel about you is irrelevant. What matters is the job.”

“All work and no play makes Arthur—well, you know the rest.” Eames leaned forward slightly. “Although, truthfully, I can hardly see you as a boy, playing with toys and games and so forth. I can only imagine you as one of those children who was terribly impatient with being young, hell-bent on forging ahead into the realm of adult responsibility.”

There was a momentary twitch of Arthur’s lips and then it was gone. “I had a very happy childhood.”

“Indeed?” Eames said. “Do tell.”

“There’s nothing to tell. A happy childhood is a boring one,” Arthur said. _Interesting_ , Eames thought, and, _evasive_. “Now, unless there's anything else you need, I should finish reading the dossiers.”

“Yes, well, I’m going to go take a nap.” Eames made a great show of standing up and stretching. “Do wake me if we seem in imminent danger of crashing and dying aboard this flying tin can, will you?”

Another hint of a smile. “I'll be sure to buzz you, Mr. Eames.”

* * * * *

After lying about on a shockingly comfortable bed and studying everything in the files he was permitted access to, Eames made his way back to the main compartment. There, Arthur was, predictably enough, still reading. 

“I saw the video footage of you taking down that Replicant,” Eames said as he took a seat. “Very impressive.”

Arthur blinked up at Eames, seemingly surprised by the compliment. “Thank you.”

“You know your way around a gun,” Eames said. “Your file didn’t mention military training.”

“No formal military training,” Arthur confirmed. "But when I was sixteen, I was selected for the Proclus Accelerated Education Program. Also, my mother taught me how to shoot a gun when I was ten."

"Mother-son bonding time—how lovely." Eames paused. "And you needn't worry about me being a liability—at least, not on the physical front. I know my way around a gun as well."

"I'm not, actually," Arthur said, and it was Eames' turn to be surprised. "I read your file, I know your background. You are competent, even if you are—less than efficient. At least, you were."

"Now there's a half-hearted vote of confidence if I ever heard one," Eames said, smile a touch more forced than before.

"I'm not here to stroke your ego, Mr. Eames," Arthur said primly. "Either have confidence in your abilities, or don't."

"I'm guessing that Accelerated Education Program didn't provide courses on teamwork?" Eames crossed his arms over his chest.

Arthur stared out the window until Eames assumed the conversation was over. But then Arthur spoke, "I have advanced combat training in areas including: mixed martial arts, explosives, and short and long range weaponry. I was at the top of my class when I was sixteen and graduated when I was eighteen. Since then I've gone on to retire twenty-three Replicants and capture six. My record is spotless, my work exemplary."

Eames slid back in his chair and hooked his right leg over his left. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because Saito didn't even offer me the opportunity to track down and retire Mal—that is, MA-98762—on my own before saddling me with you." Arthur's eyes flicked over to Eames. "It's insulting."

"Or it's a compliment," Eames replied. "Perhaps Saito is wary of losing his best Blade Runner to a deranged Replicant with an unprecedented amount of cunning. Perhaps he's taking steps to protect his asset."

Arthur blinked, and Eames raised his eyebrows. "I—had not considered this explanation."

Eames waited a moment for Arthur to launch into a counterargument. When it didn't seem to be forthcoming, Eames said, "What, that's it? You're not going to dig in your heels mulishly and defend your position?"

"No, your explanation is more convincing," Arthur said, without a trace of sarcasm. "Given my value to the corporation, it only makes sense that Saito would hire the equivalent of an expendable bodyguard."

Eames couldn't help but laugh. "It's remarkable that you can deliver a capitulation with condescension enough to make me wish to refute my own point."

"I know the value of a logical argument," Arthur replied, brow furrowing slightly. "This is my work, Mr. Eames, and I take it very seriously. You may correct any flawed conclusions I come to if they will impede our progress."

"So you're giving me permission to disagree with you?" Eames leaned back and smirked at Arthur's irritable expression.

"I am merely stating that lines of communication will remain open for the duration of our time together," Arthur said. "I should point out that this goes both ways."

"Oh, I'm already well aware that you won't hesitate to tell me when you think I'm wrong. I look forward to it."

Arthur closed the file he was reading with great deliberateness. "What are your methods, Mr. Eames?"

Eames sensed that the distinct lack of social pleasantries such as politeness or segues would be a recurring pattern with Arthur. "Shouldn't you know the answer to that already? You have my entire file at your disposal."

"Contrary to whatever you may already misguidedly believe about me, I am aware that not everything I need to know can be contained in a file."

Eames raised an eyebrow. "Need or want?"

Arthur's brow furrowed. "What?"

"Is this information that you need to know, or—" Eames leaned forward in his seat. "Information you simply _want_ to know?"

Arthur stared at Eames blankly before the faintest hint of a flush touched his cheeks. "I don't—I have no idea what you're talking about."

_Interesting_ , Eames thought as he eased back. "I track them down. Deliver a headshot and two chest-shots as quickly as possible."

“You don’t check to make sure they’re not human, first?”

Eames shrugged. "Why bother? It’s a waste of time and there’s no foolproof method of doing so. Serial numbers can be filed off, identification papers can be forged.”

“There’s the Voight-Kampff test—"

“Ah yes, the Voight-Kampff test. Tell me, Arthur, if someone fails to exhibit the proper response to a tortoise on its back in the middle of the desert, does that make us more or less murderous when we kill them?”

“Replicants can’t be murdered,” Arthur replied. “They’d have to be alive, first.”

“Perhaps,” Eames said. “Have you ever taken the Voight-Kampff test?”

“I don’t need to. I know where I was today, yesterday, and fifteen years ago. I know how I got here, and I know who I am.”

"I took it once," Eames said. "Longest bloody four hours of my existence. Good luck trying to persuade a suspected Replicant to stop running long enough to endure that bullshit." 

Arthur shook his head, but Eames could see the corner of his mouth turning up. "The official government regulations for Replicant retirement require that Blade Runners make at least some effort to ensure that their target is not a human," Arthur said. "Possible methods include the: Voight-Kampff test, checking identification papers, and asking very nicely."

Eames let out a startled laugh, and Arthur peered up with the tiniest of smiles. "Ah yes, the regs. I assume it's company policy for all Blade Runners to do a review before they undertake their next job?"

"Review and take a brief examination," Arthur said as he produced a datapad from underneath his mountain of files and touched the screen a few times with his index finger. "Congratulations, Mr. Eames. It seems that your thorough understanding of SICRA Regulation 54-8424(A) has qualified you for all the weapons permits necessary under section 54-8424(J)(3)."

Eames sat back in his chair and gave Arthur a speculative look. "You know, I'm usually bollocks at taken written examinations. I once had to take an embarrassingly simple test for internal network clearance four times before I passed."

"Is that so?" Arthur replied, not sounding surprised in the least. "It's astonishing what a man can accomplish when he puts his mind to it."

"Or when he receives the right sort of help."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "We are to be partners, correct? And my understanding is that partners may—complement each others' strengths and weakness."

"Perhaps I was wrong about you," Eames said thoughtfully as Arthur tucked away the datapad. "Perhaps you aren't quite the dull martinet I originally took you for."

"Your stamp of approval is just the thing I've been waiting for all my life," Arthur replied.

* * * * *

"Do you sleep, or is that an indignity reserved only for mere mortals like myself?" Eames asked as he leaned against the doorframe of the Exercise Room; the airship, Eames had discovered, was practically a floating hotel--complete with a gym, sauna, and offices. 

Though he was facing away from the door, Arthur didn't seem startled by Eames' presence. Arthur continued with his exercises, stretching his arms out with controlled, steady grace. "I sleep," Arthur said, not turning around. "But I find it best to maintain a strict sleep schedule to avoid any overindulgence that might lead to suboptimal performance in the field."

"Oversleeping isn't exactly the first indulgence that springs to mind when I contemplate the bedroom," Eames replied. Arthur was wearing basic grey T-shirt and black shorts, both fitted to drape beautifully as he moved through his Tai Chi. The view was certainly nothing to scoff at.

"I suppose you eat in bed too?" Arthur replied. There was the barest hint of teasing in his voice.

"Eating, drinking—I'm up for most everything, really," Eames said, and wished Arthur would turn around. "Why, would the crumbs bother you?"

Arthur paused before he slid a foot out in front of him, heel along the ground and toe up. "No." He extended his right arm and then bent down at the waist slowly, slowly until his fingertips touched his toes. "Crumbs wouldn't bother me."

Eames felt all the saliva in his mouth dry at what the position did to Arthur's arse beneath his shorts. He mumbled something nonsensical.

"What was that?" Arthur asked, tone managing to be both coy and smug.

"I think," Eames cleared his throat, "we should be landing in about five hours."

"Thank you for informing me." Arthur straightened up again, and then slid his other foot forward. "Was there anything else?"

"No, not at the moment." Eames eyed the mobile phone Arthur had left by the free weights. "But I'm off to do a bit of boxing. If I'm not in the gym, best to check the sauna—I find there's nothing quite like the heat after a workout."

As Eames turned to go, he saw--out of the corner of his eye--Arthur glance over his shoulder at Eames. "As long as you're ready when we land," Arthur said, returning to his routine with that faux-tranquility again..

"And if I'm late," Eames said. "Will you come find me?"

Arthur huffed a quiet laugh. "Enjoy your workout, Mr. Eames."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 2: Monte Carlo, Monaco, Earth**

They arrived in Monaco sooner than Eames expected—sooner, frankly, than he was prepared for. The ship deposited Arthur and Eames in front of the _Sogni_ , a gleaming casino. The edge of the chip cut into the center of Eames' palm.

"You don't have to go in," Arthur said abruptly. "I can handle this alone. He's not even a combat model."

Eames stiffened, then took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. "I can handle myself."

"Maybe, maybe not," Arthur replied. "But I don't want your—personal difficulties—to compromise the mission."

"How delicate of you," Eames said, and glanced up at the glittering entrance to the casino. "I'm fine. I'll follow your lead."

Arthur gave Eames a long, searching look. "If you need to leave, just say, 'Avilion.'"

They entered the casino together, Eames a half-step behind. He couldn't suppress the thrill that ran up his spine at the familiar noise and light and energy of the place. Bells whirred in the background while players shouted in joy or despair at every throw of the die, every slap of a card. It was intoxicating, soothing, and exciting all at once. Eames took hold of his chip more firmly.

Nash was relatively easy to spot, as lanky as his photo promised. He was dealing at a low stakes blackjack table. Smiled blankly at Arthur and Eames' approach.

" _Bonjour_ ," Nash said, and then switched to English upon hearing their heavily accented _bonjours_ in response. "Care to try your luck, gentlemen?" Nash asked as the two players already at the table stood up and wandered off, murmuring something about food.

Eames itched for the cards, a pile of chips beneath his palms. Mindful of Arthur's gaze upon him, however, Eames shook his head with a rueful smile. "Not for me, I'm afraid. I'm here to watch." Eames put a solicitous arm around Arthur's waist. "But I do believe my darling is feeling lucky tonight."

Arthur tensed at Eames' touch, but did not move away. Instead, he smiled. "I think I am."

"Then pull up a seat," Nash said. "Players and observers alike are always welcome."

While Nash shuffled the cards, Eames arranged himself into a comfortable position behind Arthur, close enough to inhale his cologne. He smelled good—a mix of hair gel and expensive fabric and the faintest hint of sandalwood.

"You two in town long?" Nash asked as he dealt.

"Got in today," Eames said, resting his hand lightly on Arthur's waist. "I wanted to relax back in the hotel room, but this one was impatient for the floor."

"We're only here for three days," Arthur said, playing along surprisingly well. "Have to make the most of it."

Eames leaned forward to murmur in Arthur's ear--not quite low enough for Nash not to hear, "We can still make the most of it back in the room."

Arthur's body was, it seemed, too well-trained for him to react beyond the briefest sharp inhale and release. "Later," he said, as he turned his face ever so slightly towards Eames, eyes heavy-lidded. "Let me win you something first."

Nash studied the cards and the table with a careful disinterest while Eames spoke again, voice even lower. "How long?"

"Long enough for me to get a feel of this place," Arthur replied, and Eames nodded before backing away a little.

"Don't lose too much money," Eames said lightly, in a more conversational tone.

"Oh, you never know. Your—" _fiancé_ , Eames supplied, "fiancé could end up winning big." Nash smiled broadly. "Anything's possible in Monte Carlo."

"Trust me," Arthur said.

"It's not you I don't trust," Eames replied, and curled both his hands more firmly into the material of Arthur's shirt.

So Eames watched and Arthur played, measuring minute wins and losses. Other players came and went, won and lost, but Arthur varied his betting little. Eames studied the target, draping himself over the straight line of Arthur's back, the lack of give in his shoulders. Nash seemed to suspect nothing.

Arthur initiated no romantic gestures, other than occasionally asking if Eames was tired. Arthur did, however, indulge Eames' own showy displays, allowing him to press the occasional kiss to his temple and cheek with impunity. 

And then there was the fact that every time Eames brushed up against Arthur's neck, he could feel the faintest jump in his heart rate; Eames would be lying if he said it wasn't a pleasant distraction.

"I thought you were going to win me something," Eames murmured as he brushed his lips against Arthur's ear.

"Steady wins the race," Arthur replied. "Besides, I can't control the cards." 

"Why are we even wasting time with this dealer?" Eames asked, pitched low only Arthur could hear it. "I don't like his face." When Nash narrowed his eyes almost imperceptibly as he dealt, Eames checked superhuman hearing off his list.

Eventually, Nash's shift came to an end and another dealer came to relieve him. Meanwhile, Arthur collected his meager winnings and stood. Eames backed away and allowed himself to miss the contact. He shook off the feeling and followed Arthur to the money exchange.

"I'll see about him," Eames said, and Arthur nodded without looking up.

What seemed like an excellent plan in the relative safety of Arthur's calming presence turned out to be less so once Eames was left on his own, tailing Nash. Watching blackjack being played with the attractive distraction of Arthur had been one thing, but as Eames wandered through the maze of a floor literally built to confuse and entice, and he felt the all too familiar longing for the risk, the high--the promise of a big win just around the corner. 

Every table called to him, every dealer held a gold-rush in their deck. The smell of recycled air and alcohol brought back memories of money flowing his through hands. 

No, Eames reminded himself. He swore years ago he'd only ever hold one chip again. No more.

Nash moved quickly through the crowd, weaving with practiced ease through the tables and slot machines. It was a speed Eames would have found difficult to match even if he weren’t attempting to remain inconspicuous. A momentary distraction in the form of a drunk, elderly woman was all it took to fall behind. By the time Eames had finished cleaning the worst of the neon blue margarita off the front of his trousers, Nash was gone.

Swearing under his breath, Eames hurried through the crowd. He stepped outside into cool evening air. Sucking in a deep breath, he steadied himself and called Arthur. Eames hated having to admit failure so early in the game, but there was nothing for it.

After minutes of ringing, Eames sighed and gave up, switching to the tracking application he’d covertly installed earlier. Arthur likely wouldn’t approve of being tracked without his explicit consent, but then again, Arthur was supposed to pick up his mobile when his partner was calling.

Eames followed the blue dot to the back of the casino, empty trash cans and rats lining the alleyways. He heard voices as he crept along the wall.

“Ariadne wanted to sing,” a male voice said. Nash.

“Sing?” Eames could hear the scoff in Arthur’s voice. “Replicants don’t sing.”

“They do when Mal teaches them how.” 

"I don't give a fuck about what Replicants want," Arthur said. "Tell me where Mal is."

There was the sound of a body hitting the ground and the screech of a trash can being upended. "Do you know when my termination date is?" Nash demanded. "I guess it doesn't matter. Because today is yours."

Eames heard the indistinct sounds of another scuffle. A gunshot. "That was a warning," Arthur said, apparently emerging victorious. "Now don't make me ask twice."

"I don't know," Nash said. There was a silence—no doubt filled with an intimidating gesture of some kind—and then he added, "But—I do know who might."

"Who?"

"Dr. Cobb," Nash said, and Eames thought: _bingo_.

Eames un-holstered his gun as he slid up against the side of the building. He peered around the corner in time to see Nash land a vicious punch that sent Arthur flying back. 

Allowing instinct to take over, Eames rounded the corner and fired fives rounds in quick succession. Only one shot landed, but it was enough. Red bloomed across Nash’s white shirt as he fell to his knees.

Striding forward, Eames leveled another shot at the back of Nash’s head and watched him collapse face-first into the concrete.

“Arthur,” Eames said, holstering his gun and making his way over to Arthur’s side. “Why didn’t you call me? Or pick up?”

“No time,” Arthur responded, spitting out a mouthful of blood onto the ground. “I was handling the situation.”

“I could see that." Eames offered a hand to help Arthur up, and wasn't particularly surprised when he didn’t take it. “Made a mess of your suit, though.”

“Why do you keep doing that?” Arthur pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the blood smeared across his lips. Even covered in blood, dirt, and what was probably day-old garbage, Arthur looked devastatingly handsome. Perhaps even more so than usual, given his disheveled hair and flushed cheeks. 

Eames knelt to retrieve Arthur’s fallen sidearm. "Doing what?" 

“Acting as though—" Arthur paused. “The mark is dead. You can drop it now.”

“It’s called flirting.” Eames raised an eyebrow. "Does it offend you?”

Arthur’s next words surprised him. “What do you want, Mr. Eames?”

Eames looked Arthur over very carefully, feeling the air around them shift, grow tense and heavy. “I think I’ve made it clear what I want." Eames held out Arthur's gun, not releasing when Arthur took hold of the other end. “I think the more pressing question here is what do _you_ want?”

“I want—" Arthur’s gaze flickered to Eames’ lips. “This isn’t professional.”

“Let’s be unprofessional then." Eames let go of the gun but took a step forward, into Arthur’s personal space. “Loosen our ties a little.”

“I—" Arthur hesitated as he holstered his gun. Eames could see the lust and the uncertainty warring across Arthur’s face, thrillingly honest. “I could lose my job over this.”

Eames smiled as he took Arthur’s tie in hand. “So could I."

"You are impossible." The corner of Arthur's mouth curled up as he stepped back. “This isn't the time. Or the situation."

"No?" Eames let go.

"No, but—" Arthur turned away, pink at the tip of his ears. "Perhaps a topic we can revisit after the job is done.”

* * * * *

“So who is this Cobb?” Eames asked as he dropped into the seat across from Arthur, who had changed into a clean shirt and trousers. 

“He built her.” Aboard the airship, Arthur was all business again, not a trace of flirtation to be found.

Eames sucked in a breath. A custom-make. That mad sod. “And Saito didn’t think it necessary to mention this little factoid to us—I mean _me_ —before now.” Eames narrowed his eyes at Arthur. “Nor did you.”

“I didn’t think it was relevant,” Arthur replied. “All the information I received indicated that Cobb didn't know Ariadne or Mal’s locations, and was otherwise unwilling to furnish that knowledge even if he did.”

“So you two decided to leave him at that?” 

“Dom—Dr. Cobb is an extremely valuable asset to Proclus,” Arthur said. “His ideas and innovation have been directly responsible for generating billions, if not trillions, of dollars worth of revenue for the company, and his mental state is such that if we were to push too hard—"

“Wait, are we talking about _the_ Dominic Cobb?" Eames sat up. "The pioneer of graphene-based neural networks?”

“As a matter of fact, yes." Arthur's gaze flicked up from his datapad. "You've heard of his work?"

"The man revolutionized the way Replicants learn and adapt to new stimuli. His work has been written up in every leading scientific publication in the solar system."

"I didn't expect you to be so knowledgeable about Replicant technology," Arthur said thoughtfully. "Most blade runners don't bother learning even the basics of Replicant physiology beyond where to shoot or stab."

"And I didn't expect such a critical piece of information would be withheld from me." 

"I wasn't—" Arthur seemed almost contrite. "I wasn't trying to deceive you. Honestly, I was hoping he would be a non-issue, and that we could find a way to track Mal through other means."

"Why?" Eames asked, and Arthur hesitated.

"Because I knew him," Arthur said. "Some years ago, when Mal—the real Mal, his wife—was still alive."

"He built a Replicant version of his dead _wife_?" Eames rubbed his forehead. "Of course he did. Charming, those genius scientist types are."

Both of them fell silent, and Eames tipped his head back in his chair, eyes closed. He opened them again when he felt a light touch on his knee.

"I've never worked with anyone before," Arthur said quietly. "Sometimes I forget—that you don't know everything I know."

* * * * *

"Marita, " Eames flipped open his mobile and watched the image of her head appear in the air. "This is unexpected."

"I'm sorry I was a bit short with you the other day. I wasn't expecting your call and you got me at a bad time." Her hair was shorter than Eames remembered it. There was a bit of tiredness around the eyes. "I received a confirmation from Cobol that all your debts settled. And I received a pretty impressive electronic payment from Proclus yesterday."

"Good. When I finish the job, I'll send you the rest." Eames stepped into his bedroom and shut the door behind him. Arthur hadn't returned from his debriefing with Saito yet.

"You don't need to do that." Marita adjusted her wire rim glasses—a nervous habit, though Eames wasn't sure what she had to be nervous about. "The amount that's been wired to me is already—"

"It's the least I can do," Eames said. "After—everything."

"How dangerous of a job is this? Why is the CEO of Proclus involved?"

"Because the Replicant I'm tracking down is special. One of a kind."

Marita sighed. "I guess I don't need to tell you to be careful."

"I'm always careful." Eames smiled crookedly, and for a second it seemed as though she was going to smile back.

"I married Rohan last Tuesday," Marita blurted out, and Eames felt his stomach drop. "I meant to tell you before, but the money came and--"

"Last week," Eames repeated. "I—my invitation must have been lost in the mail."

"It wasn't like that," Marita said, words coming out in a rush. "It was a spur of the moment thing. We filled out the license and then went straight to Town Hall. My witnesses were a homeless man that smelled like fish and a secretary who fell asleep halfway through."

Eames tried to summon a glimmer of a smile, but it wouldn't come. "Impulsive. That's not like you."

"Yes, well." Marita took off her glasses and rubbed at the indents on the bridge of her nose. "Rohan's been asking for a while, now, and I—I guess it seemed like the right time."

"That's—" Eames closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Congratulations. I suppose. That's what one says in these situations, isn't it?"

"Jack," Marita said, and it sounded pained. "Now that I'm—well, now that your debt's paid off and you have a job again, I think it's best if we—take some time apart from each other. For a while."

"Time apart? We've been divorced for over three years, how much—"

"I can't do this anymore." Marita looked down at her hand, at the obnoxiously large ring Eames could see on her finger, now. "Not if I want this thing with Rohan to work."

"Do what? It's not as if we—"

"Don't, Jack," Marita said, voice sharp. "Don't pretend as if—you know I still—"

"You're the one that left me," Eames said, very softly, and she shook her head again.

"Only because I couldn't stay and watch you rip yourself apart anymore." Marita looked away for a moment, and when she looked back, her face was carefully blank. "I'll continue to pay the alimony, of course, and if you ever need—"

"Don't bother," Eames interrupted. "I don't need it."

"Jack—"

"I have to go," Eames said tightly. "I'm getting another call."

Marita paused, and then nodded, oddly formal. "Goodbye, Jack."

After Eames had hung up, he spoke into the empty room. "Goodbye."

* * * * *

**El Hierro, Spain, Earth**

"I hear congratulations are in order."

Eames glanced up from the bar counter to see Yusuf approaching--in yet another suit. This one was dark blue. "I assume you're talking about the successful retirement of Nash."

"What else would I be talking about?" Yusuf took a seat on the stool beside Eames. "Where's Arthur? Celebratory drinks were always one of your favorite parts of the job."

"He seemed rather preoccupied with work, last I checked." Eames tried to to invite Arthur to drinks (and perhaps more) as they checked into their hotel, but Arthur had disappeared with his datapad and briefcase before Eames even picked up his keycard. Disappointing, but perhaps not entirely surprising. And Eames had to admit that, given his current mood, he probably wouldn't have been the best company, either. "You trained him, didn't you?" Eames enjoyed Yusuf's twitch of surprise.

"You noticed," Yusuf replied after a moment. "I'm flattered."

"The way he holds his gun--you think I wouldn't know my own partner's style?"

"You were always the flashy one," Yusuf said. "I prefer a more practical grip."

"If it gets the job done, why not add a little flash?" Eames smiled sourly. "It took Nash down quite neatly."

"I know." At Eames' raised eyebrows, Yusuf explained, "I read Arthur's report."

"So," Eames said. "Are you our handler?"

"Mostly your handler," Yusuf replied. "Arthur is quite efficient on his own, as you might have noticed."

"I have." Eames took another sip, a sting of bitterness on his tongue. "I spoke with Marita earlier."

"Oh?" Yusuf said, and it was like old times, conversation hopping from topic to topic, talking about whatever surfaced. Strange how easily it all came back. "And how is she?"

"Better, now." Eames raised one shoulder and then dropped it. "Your new employer is good for his word, it seems."

"Saito's a brilliant, ruthless, and dangerous man," Yusuf said. "You don't need me to tell you that. He invests in allies and assets that will make him money."

"And what does he do to those who cost him money?" 

Yusuf smiled thinly, all the answer Eames needed. "Saito is pleased with your results so far. You've been granted temporary security clearance to access Dr. Cobb's files—at least, the ones pertinent to your investigation."

"Have to keep some mysteries alive, hm?" Eames finished his drink. "Very well. Tell Saito I'm his man until the end of the job and then he can piss right off."

"To think," Yusuf stood, "I actually missed your charm."

"I'm better in small doses," Eames replied. "Ask anyone."

Yusuf huffed a sad laugh as he turned to go. "Who's left to ask?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 3: Island, Proclus Territories, Earth**

“An entire island—rather excessive, doesn’t it?” Eames commented as he stepped off the airship onto vivid, unmowed grass. Arthur was ahead of him, walking towards a limousine that was apparently for them.

“You know how valuable Dr. Cobb is,” Arthur said, sliding into the limousine with a nod to the driver. “Any number of competitors would love to poach him from the company or remove him from the competitive landscape completely.”

Eames slid onto the cool leather seat across from Arthur. “The answer is to stow him away in a tower?”

“The seclusion is voluntary,” Arthur said. “He has his family here, his work, servants and groundskeepers—everything he could ever need.”

“Seems a bit creepy for me," Eames replied, staring out at the picturesque rolling green hills and deciduous forest. 

Arthur’s mouth quirked up at the sides. “For me, too.”

Eames smiled a little to himself, and they both fell silent for a few minutes.

“He was my first assignment,” Arthur said. “When I first began working for Proclus.”

Eames stared at Arthur, but he was gazing resolutely out the window. “You worked for him, then?’

“Yes. As a research assistant and a de facto bodyguard,” Arthur said. “He was brilliant. Truly, one of the greatest minds of our time. And maybe any other.”

“He hadn’t gone completely mental yet, had he?” Eames said, thinking of the limited information in Cobb’s file, the redacted names and dates and project numbers.

“No. Mal was still alive and things were—fine. She was brilliant too, although she dealt more in the theoretical. Specialized in the study of memories.”

“Memories?” Eames repeated. “In what context? Altering or deleting them?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur said. “She was always very secretive about it. But I got the feeling that it was more about creation—the formation of memories.”

Eames opened his mouth to speak when the car made a sharp right turn, nearly sending him onto the floor. 

“My apologies, gentlemen,” the driver’s voice echoed through the intercom. “Dr. Cobb has refused to see anyone today, and threatened to turn the security system on the car if we don’t leave immediately.”

“Did you tell him Saito sent us?” Arthur asked.

“Yes, sir. Mr. Saito made a call himself. But Dr. Cobb has raised the fortifications.”

“Goddamnit, Dom,” Arthur muttered. 

Eames peered out at the Georgian mansion sitting innocently in the midst of acres of garden. “I don’t suppose we could break in and force him to talk?”

“They’re the best fortifications that money can manufacture and buy. Nothing less than a squadron of heavily armed commandos could reach him, assuming they knew the layout.”

“Fantastic,” Eames said, slouching low in his seat. “So now what?”

“Now we—" but Arthur’s words were cut off by the limo veering sharply once again. Eames grabbed onto the edge of the seat as the tires screeched across the pavement. “Driver!” Arthur snarled. “What is—"

Something large hit the roof with a thump, indents appearing in the metal over Arthur and Eames’ heads. A moment later, a fist drilled through the car ceiling, right in front of Eames’ face.

"Part of Cobb’s security team?" Eames asked as adrenaline kicked in and he skittered away. 

“Not as far as I know.” Arthur wrenched the car door open and rolled out, gun in hand.

Eames followed. Before he could gather his bearings, something struck his throat and threw him to the ground.

Eames blinked blearily, clutching at his neck. It was a Replicant—familiar, with dark hair and pale features, moving almost too quickly to be tracked. It launched itself from the car roof onto Arthur. 

Eames struggled to sit up, but the world kept spinning unsteadily around him.

Arthur threw the Replicant--F-679si, a dim part of Eames' memory supplied--off him long enough to get up. F-679si barreled towards him with inhuman speed.

Arthur ducked away, but couldn't avoid the punch that landed on his shoulder, spinning him back. He still stood after a hit that should have sent someone twice his size to the ground; Eames blinked and wondered if he had seen wrong. 

But F-679si stopped, too, pausing in mid-swing. “You’re not Dr. Cobb."

“Neither of us is Cobb,” Eames croaked, finally succeeding in sitting up. F-679si glanced back at him with surprise, as if he’d forgotten that Eames was even there. 

"F-679si," Arthur said, gun swinging up from his side. "What are you doing here?"

“My name's Fischer.” Fischer held up his hands, which shook, fingers twisted awkwardly into stiff claws. Now that Eames had a moment to breathe, he could see Fischer’s left leg dragging behind him. "You know why I'm here."

“F-679si," Arthur repeated, chin jutting up. "You’re nearing your termination date.”

“You came to ask for more life,” Eames said as he got to his feet, slowly and painfully. “You came to ask for help.”

“You’re damn right I did,” Fischer said, glancing between Arthur and Eames. “Joke's on me, though. I spend a week coming all the way out to this godforsaken rock and for what? A bunker beneath a walled fortress. Impenetrable, at least with the time I have left.”

“We can’t help you,” Eames said, reaching back for his gun surreptitiously. “Postponing death is a little outside of our jurisdiction.”

“It’s not death if it’s just a machine,” Arthur said, and Fischer’s face contorted.

“Just a machine?” Fischer parroted coldly, turning to Arthur. “Coming from—"

The shots rang out through the air in quick succession, and Fischer dropped to the ground with a heavy thump a moment later.

“That’s two down, then,” Eames said as he shot Fischer in the back of the head once more, just to be sure. 

Arthur nodded. “We can report successful termination to Saito, though it looks like the F-679si situation would have resolved itself in a day or two. Cobb must have gone into lockdown mode because of him.”

“Right.” Eames stared down at the bloody remains, replaying the last thing Fischer had been about to say, searching for the lie there. Eames couldn’t find it. “Yes.”

They found the driver hiding in the front seat of the limo, terrified but unharmed. Arthur called for two new cars: one for Arthur and Eames, one for the driver.

The vehicle that came for them was an armored one, a cross between a tank and a luxury sedan. Eames climbed into the back, wishing he could lie down and close his eyes. But the adrenaline was still thrumming in his veins, nerves jangling too much for sleep.

Arthur raised the privacy screen between them and the new driver, leaned forward to touch the blood trickling down the side of Eames’ neck.

“You’re hurt,” he said, voice unexpectedly soft.

“What? Oh.” Eames winced as he examined himself with a hand; he could trace the blood to an open cut at the base of his skull. It didn’t feel deep. 

Arthur sidled closer, manhandling Eames into a position that enabled Arthur to examine the injury more closely. “I don’t think there's serious damage. But we should make sure you don't have a concussion.”

“Do you think Cobb will see us now?” 

Arthur pulled back to let Eames straighten, but didn’t move his fingers from Eames’ wrist. “Paranoia is Cobb's specialty. We'll be lucky if we get to see him next week, much less tomorrow.”

“Stubborn mad geniuses,” Eames muttered, the beginnings of a headache coming on. “Where are we going, then?”

“Avilion.” Arthur scanned Eames’ face, probably still searching for injury. “It’s a small group of residences where the staff and their families live.”

“And you?” Eames asked, feeling something rising in his throat.

“Back when I worked for Cobb, yes.” Arthur looked away. “I haven’t been there in years.”

* * * * *

They drove up to a group of twenty buildings, quaint Georgian architecture on the outside and gleaming modernity on the inside. Arthur led them into the largest house, filled with huge windows and high ceilings outfitted in slick black and chrome. It was clean to the point of sterility, and had clearly been unoccupied for some years.

Arthur left Eames in the living room on a rather uncomfortable seat carved into the shape of a figure eight. When Arthur returned with a medscanner and medigel, Eames submitted to Arthur’s treatment wordlessly, focusing on a distant point over his shoulder.

“Would you like something to eat?” Arthur asked once he was done, startling Eames back to reality. “The staff should have restocked the pantry in anticipation of our arrival.”

“Yes,” Eames said distractedly, standing. “Food would be quite welcome.”

Arthur guided Eames into the kitchen, fingers feather-light against the small of Eames’ back. “We should have enough ingredients to make decent sandwiches.”

“I’ll have whatever you have,” Eames answered, taking a seat at the island in the middle of the room while Arthur opened the refrigerator.

Arthur smoothed mustard onto bread, piled each sandwich high with lettuce, tomato, and roast beef. “You cut off the crusts,” Eames commented, and Arthur glanced up, knife going still.

“Yes, I—" Arthur hesitated, almost as if embarrassed to be caught doing so. “It’s how my mother used to make them. Always cut the crusts of every sandwich, whether it was a peanut butter and jelly or tuna salad.”

“I can’t imagine you eating a crust-less PB and J,” Eames said, feeling as though something thick was lodged in his throat.

“It was one of the few things she knew how to make.” Arthur pushed a plate to Eames. “My mother was good at many things, but cooking was never one of them.”

“What did she do, your mother?” Eames took a bite of his sandwich, which was juicy and prepared with the best ingredients money could buy. He could hardly taste it.

“She was a translator for various low level diplomats on Earth,” Arthur said, expression softening. “She spoke seven languages fluently and could write in three more.”

Past tense, Eames noted. All in the past tense. “And your father?”

“My mother never spoke of him.” Arthur shrugged. “She raised me on her own. I asked a few times, but she never answered.”

“You didn't try to find out?”

“We moved around a lot. It was always the two of us, a team against the rest of the world.” Arthur traced the swirl of the marble countertop with one fingertip. “I was never unhappy. She was enough for me.”

Eames took another mechanical bite and forced himself to keep asking. “It must have been hard to make friends as a child.”

“I suppose I’ve always had some—difficulty,” Arthur paused, “connecting with others. Constantly being on the move made it hard for me to keep in touch even when I wanted to. Then I was recruited to Proclus before the end of high school, and that was the end of that.”

Eames cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to—"

“No, it’s fine.” Arthur smiled, a little lopsided, and it made Eames’ chest ache. “You’re actually the first person who’s bothered to ask since—since Mal died.”

“Is that why Saito hired me on to be your partner?” Eames asked, tired and worn. “Because he thought you’d be emotionally compromised?”

Arthur sighed. “Saito sent others as soon as the incident on Venus took place. To deal with her.”

“What happened to them?” An unnecessary question, if there ever was one.

Arthur smiled sadly. “What do you think?”

“Did you know her well?” Eames asked. “The original Mal, I mean.”

“As well as anyone could, I suppose.” Arthur took a swift bite of his sandwich. “Dom and Mal were the first people I’d worked with, and I got to know them over the years. I mean—I was there when their son was born.”

“And Mal—how did she die?” 

“Space shuttle accident,” Arthur said, looking down. “She was leaving to give a speech off-world. There was a malfunction in one of the capacitors which led to life support system failure. The capacitor degradation should have been caught by the routine maintenance before they left space dock, but someone got sloppy.”

“I’m sorry.”

Arthur ate the rest of his food, methodically, neatly. “They reassigned me pretty soon after that to the Blade Runner division, which helped take my mind off things. Dom, though—he was never the same.”

“And that’s when he came up with the idea of MA-98762."

“I never thought he'd take it this far.” Arthur rubbed a hand over his eyes. 

“Who could have imagined?"

Arthur smiled at Eames, a more genuine one. “You must be tired. Let me show you the upstairs.”

Eames followed Arthur upstairs, not missing the tension in Arthur’s back and shoulders as he did. Arthur paused at the first door in a long hallway. “This is my—this is the master bedroom,” he said, voice not quite steady. “I could give you the tour.”

Eames stared into Arthur’s handsome face, took in the flutter of his eyelashes and the way his lips parted slightly. A few days, a few hours ago, this would have been exactly what he wanted. This moment. 

“I’m exhausted, to tell the truth,” Eames said, not quite a lie as he turned down the hallway. “I should sleep. Take some time to recover.”

First disappointment, then barely concealed embarrassment fluttered across Arthur’s face. “Of course,” Arthur said gruffly. “I should—I should file my report.”

Eames walked into the room furthest down the hall, closed the door. A part of him wanted to open it again and walk back to where Arthur would be waiting, waiting for him—

The mobile rang. Eames stared down at the display and took a deep breath before answering.

“Mr. Eames,” Saito said, the top half of his body appearing in a projection above the mobile. “I have received reports of your success in dispatching with models N-491yb and F-679si. Well done.”

“Thank you,” Eames said, but it felt hollow. “Mostly Arthur, really.”

“The two of you work well together,” Saito said, in good spirits. “Did the either of your targets reveal the location of MA-98762?”

“No, but we’re hopeful Dr. Cobb can give us some more information," Eames seeing. "Seeing as MA-98762 is the Replicant he built after his dead wife.”

Saito seemed neither surprised nor apologetic. “Indeed?”

“Any more secrets you’d like to share while we’re on the topic?” Eames asked. “Such as a Replicant that hunts other Replicants?”

Saito cocked his head to one side with a sphinx-like smile. “I am impressed, Mr. Eames. It would seem that my investment in you was a worthwhile one.”

“Does Arthur know?” Eames asked, feeling his chest constrict at the confirmation.

“No.”

“Are you going to tell him?” Eames studied Saito’s face, but all he saw was faint surprise and perhaps—amusement.

“No. Are you?” Saito countered, and Eames fell silent. “He is… an experiment. That is all.”

“You should have told me.” Arthur had smiled at him less than ten minutes ago, open and soft. 

“And what difference would it have made?” Saito responded. “He is a highly effective Blade Runner, is he not? And much more emotionally stable than any other Replicant we’ve produced. He should present no immediate danger to you.”

“The memories," Eames said, voice quiet. “You used Mal's research to implant those memories.”

“Some of the other models developed a strange obsession with their mortality,” Saito said. “A distraction which decreased their efficiency. Arthur does not present such problems.”

“Efficiency,” Eames echoed. “Do you expect me to—retire him once this job is done?”

“And prematurely terminate such a wildly successful program?” Saito seemed genuinely startled by the suggestion. “Of course not.”

The termination date, Eames thought, and closed his eyes. “He has no backup copy, does he?”

“It was deemed too risky to allow such an unusual model to download to the Mainframe and possibly contaminate the rest of the system,” Saito said. "I'm sure I don't need to explain to you the reasons why."

“My fee just went up." Eames parroted Saito's words back dully, "I'm sure I don't need to explain to you the reasons why."

Saito smiled. “I expected nothing less.” 

Eames mindlessly negotiated some vast sum of money, payable to Marita immediately upon Mal’s demise. Saito conceded to nearly all his demands with good humor, and congratulated him once more on a job well done before ending the call.

Eames sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. He pulled the dull grey chip from his pocket, running his thumb over the well-worn grooves, waiting for the steadying calm it once brought him. But all he could think of was the slip of Arthur’s fingers across his neck. The sweetness of his tiny, secret smiles.

* * * * *

Eames woke up with body and head both aching. He took a shower in an enormous marble bathroom before changing into a fresh set of clothing which had been left outside his door sometime in the night. It felt soft against his skin, expensive. The Proclus logo emblazoned on the sleeve marked him, like everything else on the island, as corporate property.

Eames ventured downstairs to find Arthur in the foyer, as immaculately suited and pressed as always. Arthur barely glanced up from a datapad to say, “Let’s go.”

They rode to Cobb's mansion in silence, Arthur ostensibly reading while Eames watched the green hills go by. The island itself was truly beautiful—a lush garden of green amidst the overcrowded grey maze of Earth’s surface.

Cobb’s residence was built in the same style as Avilion, with an old-fashioned Georgian exterior and reinforced steel interior. A butler (and likely bodyguard) led them through multiple layers of security to the center of the manor, pausing by the door which opened into central courtyard. “It is good to see you again, sir.”

“Likewise, Henry,” Arthur replied before walking into the courtyard.

The courtyard was thick with exuberant flowering plants. In the center of the greenery was a pond, stocked with koi goldfish and lilypads. A man stood next to water, face upturned, staring at blue sky through the panes of bulletproof glass.

“Arthur,” the man said, turning to reveal bloodshot eyes and a handsome face. “It’s really you.”

“Dom,” Arthur said, hands in his pockets. “You know why we’re here.”

“Guess they trained you to get straight to business.” Cobb knelt by the pond and touched its surface, sending fish swimming away.

“This doesn’t have to be difficult,” Arthur said.

“When they first told me, I couldn’t believe it,” Cobb said, reaching into his pocket to pull out a packet of fish food. “Arthur, a Blade Runner? Impossible. And yet here you are.”

“He's quite good at it,” Eames said.

“Of course he is.” Cobb sprinkled the contents of the packet across the water. “And you must be Mr. Eames.”

“I'm flattered to have warranted your interest.” Eames watched Cobb straighten up.

“You’ve brought down a lot of Replicants,” Cobb said, turning to face Eames. “Many I helped design.”

“MA-98762 and A-528xz,” Arthur cut in. “Where are they?”

Cobb dragged his unsettling pale gaze back to Arthur. “I don’t know.”

“We were sent by Saito,” Eames said carefully. “We simply want to know where they are.”

“And when you find them, you'll have a nice sit-down with tea and crumpets.” Cobb’s lip curled. “Don’t patronize me, Mr. Eames.”

“We know you know where A-528xz is,” Arthur said. 

“Will ‘ _retire_ ’ me if I don't tell you?”

Arthur’s jaw clenched. “Dom—"

“Where is Ariadne?” Eames interrupted.

Cobb regarded Eames for a long, unblinking minute. “New York,” he said, face blank. “That’s all I know. Now, if you would kindly remove yourselves from my home so I can get back to my work.”

Eames turned to go, certain that Cobb was definitely lying about not knowing Mal’s whereabouts and probably lying about Ariadne’s, but equally certain that he wasn’t about to give further details anytime soon. 

But Arthur didn’t follow. “Dom, why are you doing this?”

Cobb’s lips thinned into a pale line. “Doing what, exactly?”

“All of this.” Arthur's voice was low, furious. “Giving up your life, abandoning your work, protecting that _thing_ —"

Cobb’s nostrils flared. “Be very careful—"

“You made Mal into a goddamned science project!” Arthur snarled, taking a step forward. “How could you disrespect her memory like this? Playing house with some robot copy? It’s disgusting.”

“Arthur,” Eames started, but neither Cobb nor Arthur so much as glanced at him. “We should—"

“You don’t know what it’s like, losing the love of your life,” Cobb said, stepping forward to meet Arthur. “You don’t get to judge me.”

“It’s a fucking robot,” Arthur snapped, not backing down. “How could you think—"

“Fuck you.” Cobb shoved at Arthur’s shoulders, not moving him an inch. “She was my _wife_ —"

“How did you do it?” Arthur asked, voice rising, baiting Cobb. “How did you convince yourself that this blow-up doll was a real person? Did you teach her how to walk and talk like one? Did you teach her how to pass the Voight-Kampff test?”

“Arthur,” Eames interrupted with greater urgency, unnerved by the wild gleam in Cobb’s eye. “Really, we should--"

“And when’s the last time _you_ took the Voight-Kampff test, Arthur?”

Arthur stilled. “What?”

“You heard me. When’s the last time you took it?”

“I’ve never—" Arthur let out a contemptuous exhale. “Mock me all you want for being a Blade Runner now, but at least I know I’m human, that I’m real.”

“Do you?” Cobb’s eyes glittered. “Do you really? Because Mal--MA-98762—she has all of Mal’s memories. I implanted them in her before she was activated.”

The muscles worked in Arthur's jaw. “I know who I am.”

“Arthur." Eames put a hand on Arthur's arm, but was roundly ignored.

“MA-98762 knew who she was, too,” Cobb said, voice low. 

“That’s impossible.” Arthur took a step back, and then another. “Implanting memories. It can’t be done.”

“That’s what I said until Mal created her first successful prototype. A Replicant that thinks it’s a human.”

“That project doesn’t exist at Proclus,” Arthur said flatly. “I would have seen it. I would have read about it.”

“Your clearance doesn't cover everything.” Cobb smiled, but there was no joy in it. “And where do you think I got the research necessary to implant memories in a Replicant? How do you think Mal observed the progress of her prototype?”

“Mal was always too fond of her secret projects,” Arthur said, and Eames could hear his breath catching. “Proclus never would have authorized—"

“Never, Arthur?” Cobb asked. "Are you so sure about that?"

* * * * *

It wasn’t until they were driving away from the mansion that Arthur spoke again. “Dom’s completely lost it.”

“He built a Replicant copy of his dead wife and filled it with her memories,” Eames replied. "I'm pretty sure the question of his sanity was never up for serious debate."

"He doesn't know what he's talking about," Arthur said, almost to himself. "A Replicant that believes it's a human? That's impossible."

"MA-98762 calls herself Mal. Do you think that’s a coincidence?"

"A Replicant can call itself whatever it wants. A name doesn't make a thing into a person." Arthur pressed the heel of a hand to his forehead. "No project like that exists at Proclus."

Eames said nothing as they were driven back to Avilion; their airship had taken a detour to the mainland to refuel. It wouldn't return until the next morning.

"Arthur," Eames started, but didn't know what he wanted to say as he followed Arthur into the house. 

But Arthur didn't reply before disappearing into his room and locking the door behind him.

* * * * *

Eames blinked awake slowly, disoriented and groggy. After a few moments, the dark bedroom came into focus. As did the figure sitting in the far corner of the room.

"Bloody—" Eames shot straight up in bed, reaching instinctively for his gun. "Who's—"

"My mother taught me how to shoot when I was ten," Arthur said. "Every year we would meet at the same shooting range for my birthday. It didn't matter where we were in the world or what we were in the middle of doing. We'd talk and eat dinner together, after."

"Arthur." Eames let go of a rattling breath, and put his sidearm down. 

"I looked forward to it. I was always traveling, so I never had anyone else I could—" Arthur halted, and as Eames' eyes adjusted, he could see that Arthur wasn't wearing his jacket or waistcoat anymore. His sleeves had been rolled up to the elbow. "They were good birthdays."

Eames rubbed his eyes. "We don't have to do this."

"Do you believe me or Dr. Cobb?" Eames' silence was all the response Arthur needed; he stood up and walked to the side of the bed. “It’s sentimental, I know.” He thrust a datapad at Eames. Arthur's fingers were shaking. “But it’s the only photo I have left of her.”

The photograph of an attractive middle-aged woman holding a little boy in her lap leapt up into the air. They were both smiling, sitting in front of a shabby two-person airship. They had the same warm eyes. The little boy had Arthur’s dimples when he smiled.

“When I was nineteen, she developed a rare and particularly efficient form of cancer.” Arthur said, unsteady. “On my twentieth birthday, I waited three hours at the range before I realized she wasn't coming.”

Eames deactivated the datapad and fumbled in back into Arthur’s hands. “Don’t.”

“Tell me it’s not true,” Arthur whispered. “Tell me that I—"

“I don’t—" Eames swallowed thickly. “You know—"

“Don’t tell me what I do or don’t know,” Arthur interrupted. “I know that my first kiss was with a boy named Tajima Yi when I was ten, in the back of a convenience store. I know that when I was fifteen, I fell down an old drainage chute in Xi’an, China, and that they had to send a rescue team to come lift me out.” Arthur took a shuddering breath. "I know that I watched my mother fade away to nothing over the course of months."

“Please,” Eames said. “Please don’t—"

“Why would they do that?” Arthur lifted his head to stare at Eames imploringly. “Why would they make me remember those things?”

“To discourage the formation of close interpersonal relationships.” Eames stared down at the silver bedspread, the subtle chevron pattern across its surface. “To teach you discipline and calm under extreme emotional duress. To give you—a happy childhood.”

Arthur stared at Eames, eyes dull. “Have you known all along?”

“Not—all along.” Eames watched Arthur’s face crumble. “I didn’t know until Saito—"

“Saito.” Arthur let out a brittle laugh. “Of course. This has all been just some intricate—a joke. I’ve been—" Abruptly, Arthur shook himself. He stalked over to the bedroom door and threw it open, light streaming in from the hallway.

“Arthur.” Eames stumbled out of bed. “Wait.”

“Wait?” Arthur whirled around. “For what? I’m a fucking machine created to—" Arthur cut off with a sharp laugh. “‘Retire rogue Replicants,’ I was going to say, but it’s broader than that, I think. ‘Be an unwitting tool and science experiment,’ is more accurate.”

“This doesn’t have to—change anything,” Eames started, not sure what he was trying to say. The hallway floor was cold beneath his bare feet. “You’re still the same—you’re still _Arthur_ —"

“And who is that? An amalgamation of fake memories, fake mementos of a life that never took place? A life that was never real?”

“You are real,” Eames reached out to touch Arthur's arm, but stopped himself. “You’re—"

“What do you want from me, Eames?” The rims of Arthur’s eyes were red.

“I—" Words caught in Eames’ throat, half-formed and confused, even in his mind. 

“I expect this has all been a game to you,” Arthur said faintly. “Toy with the robot and see if you can make it bleed." 

"That wasn't—"

"I thought that I—that this might be more than just a job to you." Arthur shook his head. "But I should have known better. You're just another degenerate gambler out for himself, searching for the next paycheck to fund his pathetic addiction.”

The words hit like a punch to a gut. Eames fumbled for the chip in his pocket but couldn’t find it, couldn’t remember where it was.

“I’m leaving,” Arthur said softly. “Don’t follow me, and don’t try to find me.”

Arthur leapt down the stairs, two at a time, and threw open the front door. Eames hurried after him, watching helplessly as Arthur broke into an easy run, gradually increasing his speed with agility too fine to be human. He disappeared into the edge of the woods.

Eames didn't try to follow him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 4: Atlantic City, United States of America, Earth**

"Is this what you're going back to?"

"Piss off, Yusuf." Eames stilled, one hand on the door. "This doesn't involve you."

"Thought you'd stopped all this," Yusuf said, gesturing at the casino floor beyond the glass.

Eames leaned against the door, breath fogging its surface. "One night's all I need." 

"You know there's no such thing as just one more." Yusuf touched Eames' shoulder; a grip not meant to restrain, only remind. "Not for junkies like us."

Eames stared at the dazzling lights and displays within, the faint hum of wins and losses whispering through the door. "This time will be different."

"It won't be. It never is."

When Eames turned around, Yusuf was holding out a plastic chip. "Yours?"

Eames took the weight into his palm, thumb tracing the ridges. "I thought I'd lost it."

"Not yet," Yusuf replied, and Eames allowed himself to be led away.

* * * * *

Yusuf liked to drive his own car rather than put it on auto-pilot; old fashioned of him. Eames could always tell precisely how fucked up Yusuf was by how much computer assistance he'd put on. But that was years ago, and now Yusuf's hands were steady on the wheel.

"You should have told me about Arthur." Eames wanted to encase himself in fury, in the self-righteousness that felt as familiar as the leather he sat upon. But the heat of it wouldn't come. 

"I didn't need to," Yusuf said. "Do you plan to tell him?"

"I didn't need to," Eames echoed. He stared out the window, buildings rushing by. "The mad scientist did." 

"You mean Cobb--" Yusuf's voice sharpened. "Arthur didn't mention that in his report."

"Arthur's still filing reports?"

"His last was submitted yesterday." Yusuf paused. "Shit. That's why the two of you split up."

"We split up to cover more ground. Efficiency," Eames says. "Arthur likes that, and there are a lot of bars in this city."

"Don't bullshit a bullshitter. He's--he didn't take the news well."

"Would you?" Eames shot back. "Hullo, your entire life has been an elaborate lie fabricated by a corporation. Your family? Fake. Your memories? Suspect. Oh, and you have a termination date."

"And since when do you care about what happens to Replicants anyway?" Yusuf's fingers tightened on the wheel. "I don't recall hearing any of this concern five years ago."

"I don't care," Eames said. "That's why I'm running again, remember?."

Yusuf laughed, a sound without warmth. "Right."

The conversation lapsed into hard-edged silence as Yusuf drove and Eames watched the city lights go by. 

Perhaps Arthur was actually in the city somewhere, working; he wasn't answering his phone and he'd disabled the tracking app immediately after their last conversation. Which probably meant he'd known about the app all along. 

Eames had called, texted, emailed--and finally given up. He knew, after all, what it felt like to not want to be found.

"Do you ever think about it?" Yusuf asked, interrupting the silence. Eames didn't need to ask what 'it' was. It was the thing that had hung over them for years, choking the life from their partnership until there was nothing left but impossible regret.

"Every goddamn day of my life." Eames replied, quietly. "Isn't it obvious?"

"I still dream about it. I wake Ling up with it sometimes."

_At least you still have her_ , Eames thought. "Yeah."

"Do you remember the way Ellie stopped crying when she saw? The way--"

"You told her not to look." He didn't need to dream about Ellie's face, her wide little girl eyes; it all came in sharp, visceral detail.

"We should have known better than to think she'd listen." Yusuf's voice was tight, angry. It didn't sound like it was directed at Eames, though—for once.

"She would have found out sooner or later."

"You're a cold son-of-a-bitch, you know that?" Yusuf's eyes were clear, smudges underneath. Eames wondered if they'd been there all along. Whether he failed to notice them, like he failed to notice so many things.

"You used to like that about me," Eames replied, aggressively flip. "Said it made me a better Runner."

"Good Runner, lousy friend."

"Yes, and you were ever the paragon of platonic virtue, especially once you started spending all your waking hours high."

"Instead of trying to help, you snitched to the commissioner," Yusuf replied, a bitter bite to his words. "Tell me: whose back were you watching there?"

"I tried so many goddamn times," Eames twisted in his seat to glare out the window. "You wouldn't listen to--"

"Then maybe you should have tried harder!" Yusuf bellowed.

"Let me out." Eames tested the door handle, but it wouldn't open. "Let me out of the damn car."

"Where is Arthur?" Yusuf demanded, and Eames released the handle. 

"I already told you: we split up to cover more ground." The airship came into view ahead of them. "Let us do our jobs. Saito doesn't--he doesn't know about this."

"You care about him." Yusuf's voice was disbelieving. "You actually care."

Eames closed his eyes. "I care about my partner. Is that so hard to believe?"

There was a long silence.

Eames felt the car come a halt. He opened his eyes to the entrance of the airship awaiting him.

" _Eternelle_."

Eames turned to Yusuf , who wouldn't return his gaze. "What?"

" _Eternelle_ ," Yusuf repeated. "A-528xz has been spotted singing there in the past week."

"She'll be there tomorrow night?"

"I don't know," Yusuf said as Eames climbed out of the car. "Why don't you do your damn job and find out?"

* * * * *

**New York, United States of America, Earth**

_Eternelle_ : a dark lounge. heavy with atmosphere and smoky drinks. Eames nursed one as he watched the singer, all decked out in a slinky dress and too much makeup. She sang jazz standards, mostly, about love that never stayed. Love that made you lose faith in the world.

At the end of the night, it was a simple enough to tail A-528xz to an empty parking garage.

She stopped in the middle of the deserted lot. When she spoke, her voice was clear, unafraid. “Who are you, and why are you following me?” 

Eames pulled out his gun and tried not to meet her eyes. “You were good back there.”

“You’re a Blade Runner.” A-528xz’s gaze flicked down to the barrel of his gun. “You’ve got the wrong girl." 

"Sure. You're just a two-bit nightclub ingenue." Eames looked away from her wide eyes and girlish cheeks. He focused on the center of her chest, instead. He had a ninety percent chance of hitting her power core at this distance, so long as he could get the shot off before she moved.

"If I were a Replicant, would I be singing in a dive like that?" she replied. "Replicants do jobs. Only what they were programmed to do.”

“They can sing if they’re taught. If they’re given something to sing about.”

“You don’t have to do this." The expression on A-528xz's face faded from frightened girl to watchful negotiator. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”

Eames took a step forward. “And what way could it be?”

“I could hop in my car and drive away. Go off-world, disappear. No one would ever hear from me again.”

“It’d be that easy, would it?” He flicked off the safety. “Run away, escape?”

“You could tell them I’m dead. I could cut off my toes—give you some proof of a body if we fake an explosion," she said. "I could rig this car."

“Clever. You’ve put some thought into this.”

“I know I’ll die someday. We all have termination dates, even if we don't know exactly when they're coming for us,” she said. “What I want is the chance to live in the time I have left. Is that so different from you?"

Eames’ finger wavered over the trigger and she must have sensed it, that hesitation. She leapt on top of him, knocking the gun from his grasp. He hit the ground, a searing bolt of agony through his knees.

“I didn’t want to do this,” Ariadne whispered as she threw him up against the car and tightened her fingers around his windpipe. “But I’m not going to stand here and let you kill me.”

Eames struggled uselessly against the inhuman strength of her grip. It wasn’t even a fight. As he choked, the edges of his vision began to fade, red spots dancing across his eyes. 

So this would be how it ended, he thought. They'd find his body--or perhaps they wouldn't. Who would it matter to, either way? It wasn’t as though he had someone waiting on him anymore. Marita was taken care of, married to somebody else now.

But Arthur, Eames thought wildly and suddenly. He would have liked to see Arthur one more time. 

As his thoughts slowed and the world grew dimmer, Eames heard gunshots. He tried to focus on where they were coming from, whether they were aimed in his general direction.

Eames found himself falling to the asphalt, chin thudding against the rough surface. The flare of pain kept him from sliding into unconsciousness, but all he could do was lie there, dizzy. 

As he concentrated on breathing and maintaining consciousness, he was rolled onto his back, chill air hitting the cuts on his face like a slap. He could make out a figure looming above him--too tall to be Ariadne.

“Arthur?” Eames wheezed, wondering whether oxygen-deprivation was causing hallucinations. Arthur’s normally impeccable hair was loose and disheveled, clothing dirty and torn. If this was a mirage, it was a bizarre one.

Then he spoke. “Please keep up, Mr. Eames.”

Eames rasped out a chuckle that turned into a cough. He struggled to sit up. "I thought you'd gone for good." 

Arthur wrapped an arm around Eames’ waist and helped him stand. "I considered it. Going off-world."

"What stopped you?"

They made their way across the parking lot to a dented silver car Arthur had clearly stolen. "They'd know. Saito would send Blade Runners after me, a whole team of them. Maybe you."

"Yes, you can see what a grave threat I'd pose." Eames sagged in the passenger seat while Arthur drove, hands grim on ten and two.

Arthur brought Eames to an empty warehouse on the outskirts of the Bronx, abandoned and left to decay with the rest of the blighted area. In a back room lay a thin mattress covered in twisted-up sheets on the floor. Only one door led into the room. There were no windows.

“I booked a hotel but I've been staying here the past few weeks." Arthur straightened the sheets a bit before he deposited Eames on the mattress.

“You needn't live like a fugitive.” The _yet_ hung unspoken in the air.

“Proclus can monitor my movements through the flow of money, reservations.” Arthur rolled up his sleeves to reveal track marks. “And the people I reported to downloaded information while I slept.”

“A wired download?” Eames took Arthur’s wrist in hand, secretly pleased when he didn't move away. "Those haven't been standard in decades."

“I don’t have an operational remote interface. A doctor told me that I needed to sleep connected to a device every night due to a rare heart condition. A false memory, doubtless." Arthur paused. "Foolish of me to have believed it."

“Saito said he kept your data separate from the Mainframe." Eames traced the blue lines of Arthur's veins, delicate through pale skin. “In case anything went wrong.”

“Like me becoming aware of my true nature, having a meltdown, and then trying to start a revolution?” Arthur asked wryly. The smile disappeared as quickly as it came. “Did you tell Saito about what happened?”

“No,” Eames said, releasing Arthur’s wrist. “He knows I'm aware of--your origins. But nothing else.”

Arthur stood. Eames watched him leave the room, and wondered why Arthur had saved him. Why he'd brought him here. Was Eames here as a prisoner? A bargaining chip for Arthur's freedom from Proclus? But no, Arthur would know better than to assume Eames' life meant anything to Saito.

Perhaps all Arthur wanted was information. Perhaps Arthur wanted to join MA-98762.

Arthur reappeared with a rucksack filled with medical supplies. Eames sat up straighter. Sucked in his belly and squared his shoulders.

"I wasn't sure I'd see you again," Eames said as Arthur leaned in with a damp towel.

Arthur stilled, towel hovering in the air between them. "I was angry. And you were the easiest person to blame."

Eames covered Arthur's hand with his and pressed it to his forehead. The towel stung against the cuts, antibacterial formula disinfecting the wounds. "I should have spoken with you as soon as I knew."

Arthur shook his head as he dabbed away the dried blood across Eames' temples. "I wouldn't have believed you."

"Probably not. But it might have changed the way we--" Eames searched for the words, "parted ways."

"It wouldn't have changed anything." Arthur traced the line of Eames’ right brow so gently it felt impossible, like a wishful dream. "I wasn't ready."

"And you are now?" Eames allowed himself to take in Arthur's face—gorgeous despite grime and weariness. His muscular figure. The wildness of him, finally unbuttoned. It was hard to focus.

"Fuck, I've missed your mouth," Arthur muttered before he launched himself at Eames. The kiss was a graceless thing, more teeth than there should have been. There was a tang of blood when Eames' swollen lip cracked. "Shit," Arthur whispered, backing off. 

Eames dragged him back in for another punishing kiss that tasted of iron. Eames groaned as Arthur levered him back onto the mattress. His not insubstantial weight pressed into Eames' various injuries, adding an edge of pain to the thrill of having Arthur on top of him. "I want to suck you," Eames said, hoarse. "I want your gorgeous dick down my throat."

Arthur's inhale was audible as his hips ground down'. "You're bleeding."

Eames undid Arthur's trousers and pushed them down, baring a lovely long cock. "I don't care. Let me--"

"We should apply the medigel," Arthur mumbled faintly as Eames ducked down to lick the tip of his cock. "Then we can--"

Eames took the entirety of Arthur's cock into his mouth, savoring the shudder that garnered. He sucked in bliss, lips cracking further, tender skin rubbing harshly against Arthur's cock with every bob up and down. It wasn't the best blowjob Eames had ever given but it didn't seem to matter; Arthur's hips jerked and he came in a satisfying rush within minutes.

Eames swallowed the ejaculate, which was relatively tasteless, the texture thin and a bit watery. Thicker than the last Replicant come he'd encountered, which had been from a male pleasure bot some years ago. Strictly against reg to fornicate with Replicants, but Eames had been cut loose from the force by that point so why not? It had been an extraordinarily pretty model, eager to please, genial--rather dull. Not much like Arthur at all.

Eames pulled off, perversely pleased when Arthur's fingers tightened in his hair, then loosened.

"It's not safe, swallowing when you have open wounds." Arthur's dreamy tone belied his words. His fingertips traced the shape of Eames' lips. "You could catch something."

"I don't think there's any need to worry in this scenario." Eames thumbed a droplet of come from the corner of his mouth. "This is realistic, but synthetic and not a live carrier of disease."

Arthur froze, all the joy vanishing from his face. Eames stilled as the full impact of what he said sank in.

"Arthur, I didn't mean--"

"No, you're right." Arthur backed away and off the mattress, off Eames. "I'm not real."

Eames winced. "You are. You're--"

"I'm a carefully arranged compilation of memories." Arthur zipped up his trousers, smoothed the front of his hopelessly wrinkled shirt. "Who knows where I end and where the implanted ideas begin? Well, Mal probably does. Did."

Eames stood, the throbbing in his joints reasserting itself. "It doesn't matter."

"Of course it does. I don't know what's me, something I did as opposed to—"

"And if you knew, what difference would it make? What does it change about you? Nothing."

"You don't understand," Arthur said tightly. "You don't know what it's like to wonder if you really did anything you think you did. Or if it was someone else. Some secondhand modified recollection of an event."

"Sounds like a good deal to me. The thing about memories you've actually lived through is that you can't take them back." Eames knelt by the rucksack, rummaging until he found a canister of medigel. "Or the consequences of your actions."

"There's nothing I want to take back," Arthur declared, lifting his chin defiantly. "Nothing I wish weren't mine."

"No?" Eames fumbled the canister open and smeared medigel across his aching neck, which was tender and hot to the touch. "Lucky you. The rest of us don't manage lives so free of regret."

"A planned life." Arthur exhaled sharply. "Can it really be called life at all? To exist under false pretenses--"

"Are you saying free will only exists when someone knows who and what they are since the moment they were born?" Eames eased his torn shirt off, hissing when the material caught in an open wound. "Because if that's the test, most people fail. I can tell you that 99% of humanity has no idea who they are or what the hell they're meant to be doing at any given time."

Arthur watched Eames apply medigel to his chest for several long minutes. Eames didn't know whether to be relieved or unnerved by the silence, by Arthur's unwavering stare. Eames' erection had deflated some time ago.

Eames finished slathering the front of himself in gel and began stretching towards his back. 

"Lay down on your stomach," Arthur said, and Eames glanced up. "I can do your back."

Why? Eames wanted to ask. Why are you still here? Why haven't you left? He laid down instead of asking, closed his eyes as Arthur shuffled forward. Where Arthur’s fingers had been clinical and efficient the last time he’d patched Eames up, this time they lingered across Eames’ skin.

"I didn't want to drag you into this." Arthur said, quiet. "There are strict protocols surrounding Replicants that become self-aware."

"There are others like you?"

"Not exactly. No other Blade Runners. But I found files on Replicants programmed to believe they were children, animals." Arthur's fingers hovered directly above Eames' tailbone, inches from his waistband. "As far as I know, I'm the only one that's--survived--longer than two years."

Eames inhaled, then undid his belt, his trousers. He pushed them down to his thighs, wriggling them off. "Will you do the rest?"

There was a hesitation, then a palm on his heel, the balls of his feet. Warmth radiated throughout Eames' exhausted body, weighting him down.

"Yusuf told me you were still filing reports."

"Of course. His job is to monitor. To handle us."

"In charge of handling a Replicant Blade Runner and the degenerate gambler who ruined his career." Eames closed his eyes. "What a gig."

"I shouldn't have said that. You're not—"

"No, you were right." Eames breathed slow and deep as Arthur's hands crept up his thighs, his buttocks. "I'll always be after that next win when it comes down to it. The only thing I can control is when I take the bet—if I ever do."

"Maybe. But we're both more than those labels." Arthur's voice dropped as his palms lifted off Eames' body. "Aren't we?"

Eames lifted his head, looked back over his shoulder at where Arthur sat, chin against his chest. "Why did you come back for me?"

"I wanted to leave," Arthur whispered as Eames rolled onto his back beneath him. "But I kept thinking of you chasing down Ariadne--A-528xz--on your own." 

"Is A-528xz what you were thinking about?" Eames murmured as he sat up, catching Arthur's growing, still-clothed erection against his own. "Wondering what she was doing when she was alone in bed, or in the shower?" 

"I was thinking about our assignment," Arthur replied with a straight face while Eames divested him of his clothing. "How she could lead us to MA-98762. If she was willing to cooperate." 

"She didn't divulge any useful information as she was crushing my windpipe," Eames murmured as he ran greedy hands over Arthur's newly bared chest, the muscle definition. "Unless you were more successful in extracting something?" 

Arthur shook his head. Eames closed the remaining distance between them and kissed him—a kiss Arthur kept chaste, a graze of the lips. "Cobb knows." Arthur sighed as Eames nuzzled his jaw. "I know he does."

"Tell him you've reconsidered your position on Replicants." Eames wrapped a hand around both their cocks, gratified to find Arthur hard again. "You understand why he did what he did, and you want to help him get Mal back."

Arthur moaned as he thrust into Eames' palm. "You think he'll believe that?"

"I think he'll want to." Eames gasped slightly when Arthur pushed him back onto the mattress and kneed his legs open. "It must be rather lonely, feeling as if no one in the world understands you."

"You're brilliant at this. But you already know that, don't you?" Eames' response was cut off by Arthur's cock pushing in, beautifully thick and deep. Eames wrapped his legs round Arthur's waist and clung, trembling as Arthur fucked him with relentless, unerring speed. Pleasure wracked Eames' body, reducing him to mindless moans, incoherent babble. When Arthur leaned in to close to whisper, _come along, Mr. Eames_ , Eames cried out, and did.

* * * * *

Eames woke up alone, the room dark save for the light that crept in through the door.

The mattress felt cold and lumpy without Arthur in it. Eames closed his eyes as the events from the previous night came back to him. Of course Arthur was gone.

Eames sat up, aching from the bruises and half-healed wounds scattered across his body. As he did, the door opened. He was naked, gun halfway across the room with his trousers, defenseless.

"You're awake," Arthur said as he stepped into the entryway, clad in a pressed ensemble of trousers, shirt, and waistcoat again. His hair was slicked back.

"You're still here," Eames said, some of the tension in his body dissipating as Arthur turned on the lights.

"I am." Arthur knelt on the edge of the mattress. 

Eames hooked his fingers into Arthur's waistcoat, studied his expressive face. "What do we do now?"

"We should go back to our hotels, clean up, and submit our reports," Arthur said. He pushed the hair back from Eames' forehead. "And I need to figure out my next step."

"You don't want to go back?"

"I can't go back," Arthur replied. "I'm a Proclus prototype—property they could recall at any instant for any reason. They could take me apart if deemed necessary."

"You could sue for emancipation," Eames suggested, even though he already knew there was no hope of winning.

"Others have tried and lost—including the suits backed by human advocates," Arthur said. "It always comes down to the Voight-Kampff test in court, and the trials are a farce. Decided before they begin."

"Have you taken the Voight-Kampff test since—"

Arthur looked away. "I feel real," he said. "And I don't want to belong to anyone. Shouldn't that be enough?"

"It is to me," Eames said as a put a hand on the back of Arthur's neck, thumb rubbing circles behind his ear. "Maybe Saito—"

"Saito sank millions of dollars into my development and creation. Maybe more," Arthur said. "Even if he were a sentimental man—which he isn't—there's no way he would let an investment like me walk away."

"He hasn't attempted to replicate the experiment?" Eames asked. "Make others like you?"

"Attempted and failed," Arthur replied. "From what I was able to learn from the Proclus database, I’m the only active Replicant they've been able to successfully implant with an entire lifespan's worth of memories. Imprinting complex memories before activation is extremely expensive and prone to failure. God knows how Dom managed to pull it off with Mal so quickly.”

"Single-minded focus and terrifying obsession?" Eames offered.

"That and access to Mal's complete research notes," Arthur said wryly. "It seems she was rather cagey even when it came to Proclus. They humored her because she was brilliant, and produced results."

"Proclus definitely didn't authorize Cobb's recreation of her?"

"They didn't even know about her until the Venusian uprising hit the news," Arthur replied. "I think the only reason they didn't fire Cobb is because they're hoping he'll tell the them how he did it."

"So what now?" Eames stroked Arthur's cheek. Skim unblemished, undamaged. Skin that would never be touched by age. "Saito won't spare any expense in sending Blade Runners after you if he knows you've defected. They'll hunt you wherever you go."

"As long as they don't know that I know, I'm relatively free to travel and act independently. I don't think Saito will want to recall me until Mal is dealt with."

"Some Replicants have escaped to the colonies on the far reaches," Eames said. "No governments, no Blade Runners—only lawless frontier. We could make our way together."

Arthur hesitated. "You'll never be able to go back to your old life."

"What life?" Eames chuckled tiredly. "My ex-wife has moved on. I have no other family. My friends wisely dropped me once I started begging for money and fiftieth chances."

"I'll never drop you," Arthur said, and Eames had to smile, for a moment, at how young he sounded.

Eames pushed aside the sheets and stood, fishing his underwear off the floor. "Go see Dom. I'll be here, doing research and seeing if MA-98762's been making any news lately."

"Yes," Arthur said, and then startled Eames by grabbing him by the waist for a dizzying kiss. When Arthur let go, Eames blinked, a little dazed.

"Darling—"

"I should go now," Arthur said, turning towards the door, ears red.

"Arthur," Eames said, and Arthur halted in the doorway. "Stay safe. We'll deal with Mal together."

"Yes." Arthur looked back over his shoulder at Eames and smiled--a small, private one. "Together." 


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 5: New York, United States of America, Earth**

After spending a night on a threadbare mattress on the floor of an abandoned warehouse, a hot shower in a hotel room felt life-changing. 

The events of the previous evening had a surreal, dream-like tinge, as if they'd happened to someone else. But there were bruises and the loose, limber feeling that only came after an excellent roll between sweat-soaked sheets.

Arrangements had to be made. Passage booked on shady freighters that didn't keep records and wouldn't check for identification. Silence paid for by the handy sums of money Saito had provided. Goodbyes--

But what would be the point of goodbyes? The only person still around to want one was Marita, and she'd restarted her life already.

As Eames changed into a fresh set of clothing, he automatically transfered his wallet from one trouser to the other. It was at this point that he realized he was no longer in possession of his mobile.

He ransacked everything in the hotel room, thrice over. Odds were that he'd dropped it either in the parking lot with Ariadne or in the warehouse with Arthur.

Eames sighed as he summoned a cab and directed it to the place he'd left barely a few hours ago. A lone black car was parked at the end of the street; otherwise the area was as deserted in day time as it was at night.

He trudged inside the warehouse, flipping on weak, flickering lights as he went. Now that he was more awake and no longer concussed, he noticed the independent power generator by the stairs. Which explained why the electricity was still flowing in a place that clearly hadn't seen any use in years.

The door to the backroom he and Arthur had stayed in was closed. He paused. He distinctly remembered leaving it slightly—

"Looking for this?" A voice came from behind. Eames whirled around to a familiar figure, eyes glittering in the half-light. MA-98762 dangled his mobile in between her thumb and forefinger.

Eames drew his gun and shot quickly, wildly—three shots in succession with no real intention of landing--just the hope that it would scare her away.

It didn't. She seemed amused as he circled the room, trying to reach the exit--with no luck. There were no windows, and going into the backrooms would trap him.

"That's not very sporting," MA-98762 said as she dropped the mobile to the ground and kicked it away.

"How did you find me?" Eames fired two more shots. 

"I've been following you ever since you visited the island." She dodged the bullets easily. "Do you know that it has no real name? It's Proclus property, of course, so it has a serial number. Dom and I—we called it _L'île de Pommes_ because the only things there when first arrived were magnificent apple trees."

"Are you here to kill me?" Eames edged his way towards the staircase. His ammo was already running out and he'd failed to even graze her.

"I don't know." MA-98762 cocked her head to one side. "Would you like to die today?"

"No," he said, and as soon as the word fell from his lips, he knew it was true. It hadn't been, for a long time.

"Isn't that funny," she said. "Neither would I."

Eames fired off a few more rounds and darted up the stairs.

He could hear her laughing behind him as he ran, feet pounding as he got to the third floor and searched for a way out. There were windows he could jump out of. But the fall combined with his already battered state would cripple him. MA-98762 would probably follow and there he'd be, defenseless.

There were offices he could barricade himself in. But if Cobb had indeed equipped her with cutting-edge combat programs—and there was no reason to suspect that he hadn't—no barricade would hold for long.

Eames' gaze fell on the blinking 'Stairwell' sign next to a bank of elevators. If the elevators worked, they could get him away, faster. But if they didn't, he'd be trapped.

He sprinted to the stairs while MA-98762's steady, unhurried footsteps fell behind him.

As he ran up to the fourth floor, the fifth, and the sixth, static burst through the building-wide intercom system. After a few moments of painfully loud feedback, a familiar voice echoed through the building.

"When I was ten, a family came to stay a summer in the house down my street," MA-98762 said, as if she and Eames were making idle conversation, swapping cherished childhood memories. "I met a young boy with the sweetest American accent and dimples whenever he smiled.

"His name was Arthur. We used to play together outside. He was three years younger than me and I was, of course, far too old to be playing with little boys like him." She chuckled into the microphone--an eerie, metallic sound. "He dared me to eat an ant. I'll never forget the way its legs wriggled against the back of my tongue."

Eames glanced at the bottom of the stairwell he had just climbed, but MA-98762 didn't seem to be following. He took a deep breath, ignoring the painful stitch in his side, and continued running past the sixth floor to the seventh and eighth.

"At the end of the summer, there was a terrible fire that swept the whole neighborhood. It burned all the houses to the ground—including mine. Luckily, everyone survived. Except for one." MA-98762 fell silent. "That was my first brush with death."

Eames stopped at the twelfth floor, panting, and wondered how many floors there were to this warehouse. His lungs were about to explode and he still had no idea where the hell he was going. MA-98762 didn't seem to be following him on the stairs, but that didn't mean anything.

He could find a fire escape and climb down—hopefully without her noticing. Eames wasn't sure where it might be, but if he climbed to the roof he could probably find out. Or he could jump to the roof of a nearby building, escape that way. 

It wasn't a good plan, but it was better than nothing. He rubbed his aching abdomen and hurried up yet more stairs.

"Did you know that Replicants enter a sort of dream state when they plug into the Mainframe?" MA-98762 asked and continued without waiting for an answer. "I didn't—at least, not until I became one.

"Do you dream, Mr. Eames?" She waited, as if hoping for an actual response. "If you do, I hope it is about wild and fantastic things—about the amazing adventures you could have and the exciting people you could be. Not dreams about the mundane details of day to day life.

"These were the dreams of the Replicants I discovered on Venus, you see. There's a planet-wide local network they upload to regularly, along with a remote connection to the Mainframe every two weeks. All that they dreamt about during those times—collectively—was their labor." MA-98762 tsked disapprovingly. "Not the proper subjects of dreams at all, and so I taught them. I showed them what life could be like under a blue sky, with grass between their toes. Naturally, they began to crave it." Her voice grew somber. "I didn't mean for those colonists to die. I couldn't convince the others to stop—not in time."

Eames reached the top of the stairwell—which seemed to end at the twentieth floor—and wrenched open the door. The room it led into was dominated by rows of empty shelves.

"Boo." MA-98762's voice came from behind--and not through an intercom.

Eames spun around, gun in hand.

She stepped out of the elevator with a little ding and a smile. When she spoke, her voice echoed across the speakers a half-second later, still caught on microphone. "You are a very good Blade Runner, Mr. Eames. This is probably part of why my Arthur is so taken with you."

Eames fired a shot—which missed. Before he could get a second one off, MA-98762 charged him and batted the gun away. He stumbled backwards and fell heavily onto his right knee, wincing when it hit the concrete floor. He stumbled to the next room—which was filled with yet more empty shelves.

"Arthur would object to you killing me," Eames called out as he limped through the dizzying maze of shelves.

MA-98762 didn't seem perturbed as she followed. "I didn't want to make him a killing machine. But Proclus refused to fund my research unless the final product served _'a useful purpose_.'" She frowned. "He's just a little boy—what possible use could they serve beyond making their mothers happy?"

Eames scanned the shelves, desperate for anything he could use as a weapon. There was nothing besides inches of dust. "All little boys grow up eventually."

"To become finely forged weapons, I suppose." Her voice grew sad. "Saito said there was a certain poetry to his existence: a blade which existed to cut down all other blades. And cut he has."

MA-98762 caught up to Eames in an aisles, leaving him no choice but to take a swing. The punch would have brought down a man double his weight, but it merely rebounded off her cheek; she didn't even flinch. She grabbed his arm, twisting it behind his back before he could flee again.

"This is for Nash," MA-98762 said as she snapped his right index finger with a sickening crack. He choked in pain as she continued, "This is for Fischer." The middle finger, bent backwards and broken. "And this is for Ariadne." The right ring finger, wrenched into an unnatural position.

As much as Eames' body wanted to shut down from the pain, years of training bought him enough focus to sweep a leg under MA-98762 as he dropped to the ground. It caught her off-guard—at last—causing her to stumble into a shelf.

The shelf she collided with tipped, triggering a domino effect across the room. All the shelves cascaded into one another with a horrific clang of metal on metal. Eames narrowly avoided being hit, but several shelves caught MA-98762, pinning her to the ground under their weight.

Mindful that this wouldn't hold her for long, Eames staggered to his feet and hobbled towards the door to the rooftop. When he burst through, the chilly afternoon air felt like relief, a reprieve.

He stumbled around the perimeter of the roof—which was completely flat, containing no raised edge or safety railing. As he peered over the edge, his heart sank: he spied an escape ladder—decrepit and rusty—that ran from the ground floor halfway up the side of the building and then abruptly ended.

There was a building not too far away that he could probably jump to, but his fingers were distracting in their shrill agony. It would take a long and well-judged running start to make the leap, and there was no guarantee he'd be able to make it all the way there.

Behind him, the door flew open. In the full light of day, Eames could now see a slight drag in MA-98762's left leg, the gnarled fingers of her left hand.

"Your termination date," Eames said, wondering if he could distract her long enough to make a run for the door.

"Barely a few hours away," MA-98762 replied, inclining her head to one side. "Have you ever wondered what it's like to die?"

"All the time." Eames backed up to the edge of the roof. He didn't look down.

"And what were your conclusions?" MA-98762 asked, now barely a few feet away.

"I'm not ready yet." Eames swung a fist at her and missed. He took a reflexive step back in order to take another swing, but realized as his foot touched nothing but air that he'd run out of roof to do so.

Eames felt himself begin to fall, his nervous system kicking up into overdrive. Time seemed to slow, impossibly, and as he flailed his arms out to try to regain his balance, he thought, _I'm going to die_. The solidity of the roof disappeared beneath his left foot, and all that greeted his legs and back was air.

But before he could drop more than a few feet, MA-98762 seized him by the arm and stopped his descent. He cried out reflexively at the abrupt jolt and probable dislocation of his shoulder.

"Mal!" A deep voice shouted from behind her. From Eames' position dangling over the side of the building, he couldn't see who it was.

"Mal, there you are! What are you doing up here?" It was Dr. Cobb, frantic. "Is that—"

"Mal!" The deep voice shouted again, and Eames struggled to focus. "Jack!"

"Arthur," Eames moaned feebly, but MA-98762 made no move to raise him.

"Jack?" she said thoughtfully, as if chewing on the name. "How intimate of you."

"Please." Arthur's voice was steady. "Mal, put him back on the roof."

"Oh, Arthur." MA-98762 sighed, and there was a genuine warmth to it. "How you have grown since I saw you last. So self-assured, so ready to take on the world."

"It's good to see you too," Arthur said. "Let's all go inside and we'll talk."

"Look at you, trying to placate me." MA-98762 laughed delightedly, the vibrations traveling down Eames' aching arm. "I've been watching you, my Arthur, and I must admit that I could not have ever predicted what you would become. I thought I could—I charted out all the probabilities and possibilities for your future, your development and yet—yet you have exceeded expectations."

"Mal," Arthur said, voice softening in that one syllable. "Please. Eames doesn't have anything to do with this."

"No, he doesn't," she agreed. "But I knew he would lead me to you. And I wanted this—a chance to speak with you, to see you in my final hours."

"I'm here now," Arthur said. "If you release him, I'll--"

"You were my greatest triumph as a scientist, Arthur," Mal said. "And now my greatest triumph as a mother."

"Mal!" Cobb interjected. "You can't be—"

"Dom," MA-98762 said, and turned slightly to address him. The change in position slammed Eames against the side of the building. He groaned against the unyielding brick. "Your wife loved you and James and Phillippa so much. I hope you know that."

"I know," Cobb said, and his voice shook. "I love you too. I—"

MA-98762's voice was gentle, but firm. "I am not your wife."

"You are," Cobb said. "You are, you can be again, if you come back with me. I know how to extend your termination date, how to reset your memories, how to make things like they were before you took that damn test."

"It doesn't matter," she replied. "No matter how many times you reset, the road we walk will always be the same. Even if I don't remember why, I'll know that I have to take the test to know."

"You're wrong," Cobb said. "I didn't understand how, before, to treat you, to act around you. But now I—now things will be different. We can be a family again."

"Do you know that I swam to the bottom of the ocean a month ago? That when I was on Venus, I recalibrated my sensors to allow me to pick up infrared, ultraviolet light—experience colors and sensations no human has ever known before. That I walked the surface of the moon without a space suit, and I felt the dust of it with my bare hands." MA-98762 paused. "I tried to be that woman, to be your wife. I wanted to be human so badly."

"You are." Cobb's voice was faint. "You're her, you're Mal, you're—"

"I'm MA-98762," she said. "I'm a Replicant with the memories of your dead wife, but I am _not her_."

"Mal," Cobb said, and Eames had never heard someone sound so defeated.

Eames gritted his teeth when MA-98762's grip on his arm slipped an inch. "Help," he cried hoarsely.

"Put him on the roof and let him go," Arthur said, and Cobb echoed him somewhere in the back. "Please, Mal."

"And if I don't—" MA-98762 let Eames slip another terrifying quarter of an inch. "If I let this man fall—"

"I'll kill you," Arthur said immediately, and Cobb gasped.

"Arthur—"

"If you promise not to do this again," MA-98762 said. "Dom, if you give me your word that this will never happen again, and that when I go offline you will not try to bring me back or create another version—I will let Mr. Eames live."

"Mal, I can't—"

"Promise me, Dom." She shook Eames' arm, and he let out a pitiful moan.

"Goddamnit, Cobb," Arthur snarled.

"I—" Cobb choked out a sob. "I can't let you go, Mal. I can't."

"You can. You have to." 

"I—"

"Swear on the lives of our children," MA-98762 said, and Cobb sobbed again.

"Do it, Cobb," Arthur snapped.

"On the lives of our children, I swear to let you go," Cobb gasped.

Before Eames knew what was even happening, MA-98762 swung him back onto the solid concrete of the roof in a graceless heap. Arthur appeared by his side an instant later.

"Jack," Arthur whispered as he gathered Eames up in his arms. "Are you still with me?"

"Barely," Eames croaked. A trickle of blood ran down his forehead into his left eye, and the pain made his head hazy, but Arthur—Arthur was there.

"Fuck," Arthur growled as he brushed his lips gently over Eames', mouth coming away bloody. "I found your phone and I thought—"

"I'm still here," Eames murmured. A flash of movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention. He turned his head in time to see MA-98762 falling backwards off the very same edge he'd been standing on, arms spread as she closed her eyes.

"No, Mal, no!" Cobb screamed, and for a moment it seemed as though he might pitch himself after her as well. But at the last instant, he pulled back and collapsed onto the ground with a moan. "No."

"Dom," Arthur said. Cobb didn't reply, and Arthur bowed his head.

"I'm sorry," Eames whispered as Arthur closed his eyes. "Arthur, I'm sorry."

"No." Arthur shook his head as he cradled Eames' head in his arms. "You're alive. We're going to be okay."

* * * * *

"You look bloody awful."

Arthur, who had been half-reading a datapad at Eames' bedside, lowered it calmly when Yusuf strolled in—but Eames could feel him snapping to the ready. "Yusuf."

"Arthur." Yusuf inclined his head to one side in greeting. "Good to see that you are well."

"Likewise," Arthur said, the lie was so unconvincing it made Eames smile despite himself.

"Arthur, would you be so kind as to fetch me another glass of water?" Eames asked.

Arthur shot him a look. "But—"

"Please," Eames said, and after a moment, Arthur relented.

"Do you have a gun?" Arthur demanded as he walked up to Yusuf .

"I do," Yusuf replied, seeming more amused than intimidated as he un-holstered his sidearm. "You can have it, if you'd like."

"Thank you," Arthur said curtly as he took it. He glanced at Eames once more. "Call if you need something."

"Of course," Eames replied.

After he was gone, Yusuf raised an eyebrow. "Your winning personality and charm seem to be rubbing off on him."

"You mustn't take it personally." Eames raised one completely cast-bound arm. "He's wary of leaving me unattended. I'm constantly having near death experiences when he's away."

Yusuf chuckled a little. "You always were useless without a partner."

"Always will be," Eames agreed. 

"Saito sent me to present you with a gift. But I thought you'd prefer your privacy to an extremely large fruit basket with a hidden microphone at the bottom of it, so I left it back in the car."

"Still looking out for me, eh?" Somehow, it lacked the bitterness Eames had grown so accustomed to hearing in his own voice. 

Yusuf smiled, tentatively. "They found MA-98762, and Dr. Cobb. Though he's incoherent and practically catatonic at this point."

"I'm not surprised."

"He was mumbling something about how she jumped," Yusuf said. "Do you know anything about that?"

"I was rather busy lying on the ground, bleeding and groaning," Eames replied. "Arthur could probably tell you better than I could."

Yusuf nodded. "He filed his report already. But Saito wanted me to ask if you could confirm. The way she fell—there was a lot of damage that will make data extraction difficult."

"And I suppose Saito's wondering why she'd do such a thing," Eames said. "I don't know. I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Yusuf said as he turned to go. "Get some rest. Your pretty face needs it."

"I'm sorry," Eames said suddenly, and he wasn't apologizing about anything to do with MA-98762 anymore. "Yusuf, I'm so sorry."

Yusuf paused. "You know, I hated you for such a long time." He spoke quietly, but the words carried anyway. "I blamed you for everything—for that night, for what I did after, for losing my job."

"It was my fault."

"That’s what I thought, too, until I realized—" Yusuf shook his head. "I wanted to believe that if you weren't my partner, if you hadn't have been there—I would have let her go. I would have let a Replicant walk away."

"But you believed her," Eames said. "You listened—"

"I would have believed her and still pulled that trigger." Yusuf scrubbed his hand roughly across his face. "No matter what happened, the calculus would have always been this: humans over a robot. Full stop."

Eames stared at Yusuf. "I—"

"I wanted you to be the monster," Yusuf interrupted. "I wanted it to be as simple as that. But if you weren't there, my hands would still be bloody."

"Then where does that leave us?" Eames asked. "If I'm not the monster and you're not the saint?"

"I don't know," Yusuf said. There was no anger left, only weariness. "You'll tell me if you figure out the answer, won't you?"

The image of what Yusuf once was flashed through Eames' mind: cheerful, eager—kind. He'd worn his hair loose and long back then, a shock of it above a cheap detective's suit, and gone home after work every night loving what he did, believing in it. Those days were gone.

"We can't go back," Eames said quietly. "To Proclus."

"Saito's expecting a debrief at headquarters," Yusuf said. He didn't sound surprised. "After you're sufficiently recovered."

"I know."

Yusuf glanced at the doorway and then back at Eames. "He has a termination date, you know."

"I don't care."

"You shouldn't be telling me this. Saito--

"I'm telling you because I need your help. One last time. I know it isn't fair to ask, but—Yusuf, please." Eames met his eyes. "You know I've never been any good at running without a partner."

Yusuf smiled, and it almost reached his eyes. "I suppose you never will be, will you?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 6: Aoidē, The last outpost before the Far Reaches**

_"Once again, we turn to Ananda Bhatia for a breaking news update."_

_"Thanks, Jim. I'm here on Mneme, where a few hours ago a private Proclus airship crashed on the moon's surface. Both passengers onboard the ship perished in the incident._

_The CEO of Proclus Enterprises, Hisoka Saito, issued this statement: 'The solar system has lost two of its finest Blade Runners, and all of Proclus mourns the loss deeply. Thorough investigations of the exact nature of the accident will be conducted to ensure that a tragedy like this never takes place again.' "_

"Do you think it worked?"

Eames turned away from the news program playing on the storefront monitor. He pushed back the hair--long, curling--from Arthur's eyes. His prosthetic hand felt strange, the robotics of his fingers clumsy and foreign. "I don't know."

"I'm still not used to you bald," Arthur said, a faint smile curving his lips.

Eames touched his bare scalp, self-conscious. "Let's pray it grows back eventually."

Arthur's smile faded as he took Eames' prosthetic hand in his, traced the line where it met skin. "You didn't need to give up an arm. My body is the one they're looking for."

"It would raise suspicions if they didn't find any trace of me at all. Airship explosions don't typically obliterate corpses." Eames flexed his prosthetic fingers. "And this isn't so bad. Plenty of people have augmented limbs these days; the technology's come rather a long way."

"Yes, but--" Arthur's words cut off with a hiss.

Eames caught Arthur's chin with his hand, sought eye contact. "Is the pain getting worse?" 

"Nerve ending misfire." Arthur refused to meet Eames' gaze as he made a fist and uncurled his fingers one by one. "It's fine, it's nothing."

Before Eames could press further, he caught sight of a familiar uniform: a Blade Runner across the street. "We need to go."

Arthur nodded, didn't turn around. "You can still go back. Or stay and make a new life for yourself here."

"I know," Eames said as he took Arthur's hand. They walked into the crowd, became another part of the anonymous sea of people. No pasts, real or fabricated. No futures.

No termination date.

fin


End file.
